The Ten-Second Bet
Dylan rolled his neck.
“Ready?”
Walter nodded.
The event organizer looked uncertain.
“Maybe we should—”
Dylan interrupted.
“It’s fine.”
Walter glanced at the organizer.
“I won't hurt him.”
Dylan laughed.
“You're worried about hurting me?”
“No,” Walter said.
“I’m worried about embarrassing you.”
The crowd exploded.
Dylan’s face hardened.
Marcus closed his eyes briefly.
He knew that look.
Dylan had been praised too much.
Too young.
Too often.
He had become convinced that every challenge was an insult and every victory was proof that he was destined for something greater.
The referee stepped between them.
“Light contact. No slams. No joint attacks beyond controlled submissions.”
Dylan nodded.
Walter said nothing.
The timer was set for thirty seconds.
Dylan bounced on his toes.
Walter stood completely still.
The crowd began counting down.
“Three!”
“Two!”
“One!”
The timer sounded.
Dylan exploded forward.
He expected Walter to retreat.
Instead, Walter stepped diagonally.
Not backward.
Not sideways.
Diagonal.
His right hand caught Dylan’s wrist.
His left hand touched Dylan’s elbow.
For a fraction of a second, nothing happened.
Then Walter rotated.
Dylan's balance vanished.
His body moved before his mind understood why.
One foot left the mat.
Then the other.
Walter turned his hips.
Dylan landed flat on his back.
The impact made a dull sound.
Silence.
The timer showed four seconds.
Four.
Dylan stared at the ceiling.
Walter released him immediately.
He stepped back.
“Are you okay?”
Nobody answered.
Dylan sat up.
His face was red.
“You got lucky.”
Walter nodded.
“Probably.”
The crowd began murmuring.
Dylan stood.
“Again.”
Marcus stepped forward.
“Dylan, enough.”
“No.”
Dylan pointed at Walter.
“He caught me off guard.”
Walter looked at him.
“You asked for ten seconds.”
Dylan clenched his jaw.
“Again.”
Walter sighed.
“All right.”
This time Dylan approached cautiously.
The laughter was gone.
He circled.
Walter followed him with his eyes.
Dylan feinted left.
Walter didn't react.
Dylan stepped in.
Walter moved.
Again.
This time the motion was even smaller.
He caught Dylan's arm, shifted his weight, and redirected the younger fighter past him.
Dylan stumbled.
Walter touched his shoulder.
“Stop.”
Dylan spun.
Walter's hand was already on the back of his arm.
A slight turn.
A change in angle.
And Dylan dropped to one knee.
Walter released him.
Seven seconds.
The crowd was completely silent.
Marcus felt something cold move through his stomach.
He had seen techniques like this before.
Not in local gyms.
Not in amateur competitions.
In rooms where people didn't wear colorful rash guards.
Rooms where mistakes had consequences.
Dylan stared at Walter.
“Who are you?”
Walter looked down at his old hands.
“A janitor.”
“No.”
Dylan shook his head.
“You're not.”
Walter picked up his shoes.
The referee stepped toward him.
“Mr. Bell…”
Walter smiled politely.
“Please don't.”
He put his shoes back on.
Then he returned to the mop bucket.
The crowd began talking all at once.
One teenager had recorded everything.
Another was already replaying the footage.
Marcus walked over.
“Walter.”
The old man kept pushing the bucket.
“Yes?”
“That wasn't luck.”
Walter continued cleaning.
“I know.”
Marcus lowered his voice.
“Where did you learn that?”
Walter stopped.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he looked at Marcus.
“Somewhere a long time ago.”
“Where?”
Walter's eyes hardened.
“Somewhere I don't like remembering.”
Then he pushed the mop bucket away.
Marcus watched him leave.
Behind them, Dylan remained on the mat.
For the first time in years, the young fighter wasn't smiling.
The Janitor Everyone Knew
By Monday morning, everyone at Eastbrook had heard about Walter Bell.
By Tuesday, the video had been viewed thousands of times.
By Wednesday, somebody had edited dramatic music over the footage.
By Thursday, a local sports page had posted the clip with the headline:
66-YEAR-OLD JANITOR DROPS LOCAL FIGHTER IN FOUR SECONDS.
Walter hated it.
He refused to watch the video.
He refused interviews.
He refused every invitation to demonstrate what he had done.
Instead, he showed up at six every morning.
He cleaned.
He repaired.
He emptied trash.
He changed lightbulbs.
He greeted children.
He remembered birthdays.
He lived quietly.
That was what Marcus found strange.
People who possessed extraordinary ability usually enjoyed recognition.
Walter seemed terrified of it.
One afternoon, Marcus found him fixing a broken cabinet in the equipment room.
“You've become famous.”
Walter sighed.
“I noticed.”
“Dylan wants a rematch.”
“No.”
“He's serious.”
“I don't care.”
Marcus leaned against the wall.
“Why?”
Walter tightened a screw.
“Because the first match wasn't supposed to happen.”
“You embarrassed him.”