"Alright, Trev," Logan called out, slipping his mouthpiece in and strapping on his 16-ounce gloves. "Let's move around. Just flow, okay?"
Trevor, wearing heavily taped shinguards, looked nervous. "Forty percent, Logan. Seriously. My ribs are still bruised from Monday's sparring."
Logan offered a warm, reassuring smile. "Relax, man. I got you. We’re just working technique. Touching. No power."
They touched gloves. For the first sixty seconds, Logan kept his word. They exchanged light jabs, moved around the cage, and practiced their defensive slips. It was a beautiful display of distance management.
Then, Trevor slipped inside a lazy left hook and landed a crisp, clean right hand right on Logan’s chin. It wasn't hard, but it was perfectly timed. It made a loud smack.
From the sidelines, someone murmured, "Nice."
Logan’s eyes darted toward Derek. He saw the red recording light blinking on the phone. In Logan's mind, that single punch from a teenager was a slight against his brand. He couldn't post a video where a nineteen-year-old kid got the better of him, even for a second. The script had to be flipped. The narrative had to be restored.
Logan’s stance widened. His breathing changed.
He threw a jab, much faster this time. Trevor tried to parry, but Logan followed up with a blistering body kick that echoed through the gym. Trevor gasped, stumbling backward. Before the kid could recover, Logan stepped in, feinted a high kick, and threw a wicked left hook straight into Trevor’s already bruised ribs.
The sound of the impact was sickening. Trevor folded like a cheap lawn chair, dropping to his knees, gasping for air, clutching his side.
"Time!" Trevor wheezed, his face pale.
Logan stepped back, bouncing on his toes, looking entirely unfazed. "You good?"
"Yeah," Trevor lied, struggling to stand. He was wincing in agony.
Marcus Reed stepped onto the mat, his face dark with fury. "I said technical sparring, Logan."
"It was technical," Logan shot back, shrugging. "I hit him with a textbook liver hook. He left his side open. He needs to learn."
"He asked for forty percent!" Marcus yelled, his voice booming.
"That was forty," Logan smirked, knowing full well he had thrown that hook with malicious intent. "If I threw a hundred, he'd be at the hospital."
"No, it wasn't."
The voice didn't belong to Marcus. It didn't belong to Derek or any of the fighters lingering by the heavy bags. It was a quiet, steady voice that seemed to cut through the tension in the room like a blade.
Everyone turned.
Standing near the edge of the mat, holding a yellow plastic mop bucket, was Henry Wallace.
Chapter 2: The Janitor
Most people at Northside Combat Club didn't truly see Henry. They saw a fixture. A piece of the background machinery that kept the gym running.
Henry was sixty-three years old. He wore faded navy work pants, a gray maintenance shirt with the gym's logo peeling off the breast, and black orthopedic sneakers that had seen better days. His hair was completely gray, cut close to the scalp, and his brown face was deeply weathered, lined with the kind of wrinkles that spoke of a lifetime of hard labor and quiet endurance. He walked with a noticeable limp in his right leg, a slow, methodical shuffle as he moved from the locker rooms to the main floor.