"A real fighter," Hank said, returning his attention to Brad, "protects the people around him. He doesn't break them for sport."
Hank leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for Brad.
"If I ever—ever—see you bully someone in this room again, I won't just pinch the nerve. I will tear the rotator cuff completely off the bone, and you will never throw a punch for the rest of your miserable life. Do we understand each other?"
Brad couldn't form words. He just nodded frantically, weeping, a long string of drool hanging from his chin to the mat.
"Good," Hank said.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Hank released the grip.
Brad immediately collapsed fully flat onto the mat, curling into a tight fetal position, clutching his dead arm to his chest, whimpering.
Hank stood up. He didn't celebrate. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't even look back down at the broken man sobbing at his feet. He simply brushed a speck of dust off his gray Dickies trousers, ducked back through the ropes, and climbed down from the ring.
The crowd parted for him instantly. Men scrambled backward, tripping over their own feet to get out of his way, treating him with the terrified reverence reserved for an apex predator.
Hank walked back to the wooden bench. He sat down. He pulled on his thick, gray wool socks. He slid his heavy, steel-toed boots back onto his feet, taking his time to lace them up tightly and double-knot them. He stood up, testing his bad knee, and let out a quiet sigh.
He walked over to where his red toolbox had spilled across the concrete floor. Slowly, meticulously, he picked up every wrench, every socket, and placed them back into their designated slots. He snapped the metal latch closed.
He picked up the toolbox in one hand, grabbed his rubber mallet in the other, and walked back over to the jammed locker.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The sound echoed through the eerily silent gym. Nobody spoke. Nobody went back to training. They just stared at the janitor, and then at the ring, where their top fighter was finally managing to sit up, cradling his right arm, his face buried in his knees, thoroughly and entirely shattered.
Sam let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. A massive, involuntary smile spread across his face. He looked at the heavy bag in front of him, then looked back at Hank. The world suddenly felt a little more balanced.
Hank finished hammering the locker door. It popped open with a metallic squeak. He nodded to himself in satisfaction.
The old man packed up his tools, grabbed his spray bottle of disinfectant, and shuffled toward the men's locker room to check the paper towel dispensers. The floor was clean. His work was done.
The gym would never look at the janitor the same way again, but Hank didn't care. Sweat and blood smell exactly the same when they dry on canvas, and tomorrow night, someone was going to have to mop it up.