"It’s clean," Hank said. His voice was jarring. It wasn't the trembling voice of a frightened old man. It was like gravel crunching under a heavy tire. Low. Quiet. Impossibly rough.
Having delivered his verdict, Hank turned his back on the region's top fighter and shuffled away toward his supply closet.
Brad’s jaw tightened so hard his molars ground together. A few guys near the heavy bags, including Sam, had stopped to watch the exchange. When Hank walked away, one of the newer guys let out a stifled, nervous chuckle. Brad snapped his head toward the sound, glaring with such venom that the gym instantly went dead quiet. He looked back at the receding figure of the janitor. Brad hated being dismissed more than he hated losing. In his chaotic world, respect was taken through physical force, and this broken-down cleaner was acting like Brad was nothing more than an annoying insect.
"Watch your mouth, Grandpa," Brad muttered, ensuring his voice was loud enough for the entire room to hear. "Or I’ll have you scrubbing the locker room toilets with your damn toothbrush."
Hank didn’t stop walking. He didn't break his slow, rhythmic stride. He simply reached out, pulled the dirty string on the closet light, stepped into the darkness, and shut the door firmly behind him.
Friday nights at Apex were always uniquely chaotic. It was open-mat night. Fighters from rival gyms across the city—and sometimes from neighboring counties—drove through rush-hour traffic just to test themselves against new bodies. The heavy metal music was cranked up to a deafening volume, a pounding bassline that vibrated up through the floorboards and rattled the teeth. The air inside the gym grew thick, incredibly humid with the exhaled breath and sweat of fifty men rolling and sparring simultaneously. The long mirrors lining the back wall were completely fogged over with condensation.
Brad was having a terrible night.
A visiting Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu brown belt, a lanky, unassuming guy in a faded gi, had caught Brad in an omoplata—a complex shoulder lock—during a grappling round. Brad, true to his nature, had vehemently refused to tap out. His ego wouldn't allow him to submit to a smaller man in front of his home crowd. Instead of conceding, Brad had tried to aggressively muscle his way out of the leverage-based hold, jerking his body wildly. The result was inevitable. The brown belt adjusted his hips, applied the pressure, and wrenched Brad’s arm hard.
A sickening pop echoed over the music.
Brad screamed, finally tapping the mat frantically. The head coach had to rush over to intervene, separating them. Brad’s pride was deeply bruised, and his right shoulder throbbed with a hot, sharp pain. He spent the next forty-five minutes pacing the outer edge of the mats like a caged tiger, icing his shoulder, and glaring at anyone who dared to make eye contact with him. His fragile ego was severely fractured, and it was actively demanding a sacrifice to restore its balance.
Across the room, far away from the mats, Hank was dealing with a jammed locker door. One of the meathead regulars had shoved an oversized duffel bag into one of the rusted metal cubbies, completely mangling the cheap locking mechanism. The door was wedged tight.
Hank had a small, battered red metal toolbox open on the concrete floor next to him. He was kneeling on his good knee, using a heavy flathead screwdriver and a rubber mallet to painstakingly pry the bent metal back into shape.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The rhythmic, piercing sound of the metal-on-metal impact cut sharply through the heavy bass of the gym's stereo. It was steady. Relentless. Unbothered.
Brad was sitting on a bench near the heavy bags, trying to wrap his hands with a fresh roll of tape, silently preparing to take his mounting frustration out on a leather bag. But the sound of Hank’s mallet was driving him insane. Every strike felt like a literal hammer hitting the inside of Brad’s throbbing skull. He ripped the tape off his wrist and dropped his wraps on the floor.