decades of disciplined restraint finally giving way to necessity. The weary janitor
seemed to subtly shift, his posture changing in a way that was almost imperceptible
unless you knew exactly what to look for. The slight stoop in his shoulders vanished.
"Alright," Marcus said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried
clearly across the silent gym. "One punch."
Ethan’s grin widened into a feral grimace. His ego swelled, blinding him
entirely. He began to dance around Marcus, throwing rapid feints, putting on a
show for the invisible crowd in his head. He wanted to humiliate the man, to
remind everyone of the natural order of things.
He planted his back foot, twisting his hips with explosive torque, and unleashed
a vicious, looping right hook. It wasn't a playful tap; it was a strike meant to connect,
meant to knock the old man off his feet and teach him a brutal lesson about his
place in the world.
But the punch never landed.
What happened next defied the logic of the spectators’ eyes. It defied Ethan's
understanding of physics and age.
In a blur of motion so smooth and efficient it seemed almost liquid, Marcus
didn't just dodge. He didn't scramble backward or flinch away. He slipped the punch
4
entirely, moving his head a fraction of an inch just as the leather glove grazed the
air where his jaw had been a millisecond before.
Simultaneously, with the practiced grace of a master orchestrating a symphony