For five years, Henry had been the silent guardian of the facility. He emptied the overflowing trash cans, scrubbed the blood and sweat off the vinyl mats, fixed broken locker hinges, and made sure the bathrooms smelled like industrial bleach rather than stale body odor.
Logan had probably spoken ten words to the man in five years. To Logan, Henry was just the old guy who got in the way when he was trying to film his walkouts.
But right now, Henry wasn't mopping. He was standing completely still, both of his calloused hands resting on the top of his mop handle, looking directly at Logan.
Logan frowned, his ego bristling. "Excuse me? What did you just say?"
Henry didn't flinch. He looked at Trevor, who was still clutching his ribs, and then back at Logan. "The boy asked you to take it easy. You agreed. Then you hit him with a spike in your heart. That wasn't forty percent. That was ego."
A heavy silence fell over the gym. The few remaining fighters exchanged nervous glances. No one talked to Logan Pierce like that. Especially not the janitor.
Logan let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Wow. I didn't realize we had a striking analyst on the payroll. Thanks for the breakdown, Henry. Appreciate the medical consultation."
Henry ignored the sarcasm. He looked at Trevor again. "You okay, son?"
Trevor nodded quickly, clearly embarrassed to be the center of attention. "I'm fine, Henry. Really."
Henry gave him a soft, knowing look—the kind of look an elder gives a youth when they both know the truth. Then, without another word, Henry turned back to his bucket and plunged the mop into the soapy water.
It should have ended there. It would have ended there, if not for Derek.
"Yo," Derek whispered from behind his phone, snickering. "The janitor just called you out, bro."
Logan heard it. The camera was still rolling. His pride, inflated by years of online adulation and gym dominance, couldn't let it slide. A slight from a peer was one thing. A scolding from an old man with a mop was unacceptable.
"Hey, Henry," Logan called out, stepping closer to the edge of the mat.
Henry stopped wringing the mop. He looked over his shoulder. "Yes?"
"You train?" Logan asked, a predatory smirk playing on his lips.
Henry paused. "Used to."
"What?" Logan pressed.
"A few things."
"Boxing?"
"Some."
"Wrestling? Jiu-jitsu?"
"A little."
Logan's smile widened. The vague, unassuming answers were exactly what he wanted. "A little? That's cute."
Marcus stepped forward, stepping between Logan and the old man. "Logan. Enough."
"What? I'm just making conversation with our resident fight expert," Logan said innocently.
"Leave him alone," Marcus warned, his voice dangerously low. "Go take a shower and go home."
But Logan was riding the high of the camera. "Why? He obviously knows so much about distance and power control. I think he should show us." He looked past Marcus. "Come on, Henry. Just thirty seconds. Light movement."
"No," Henry said calmly, turning back to his bucket.
"I'll be super light," Logan taunted. "Come on. Just movement. Show the kid how it's done."
"No."
By now, every set of eyes in the gym was glued to the scene. Derek had moved closer, capturing every second of the confrontation. Logan could already see the thumbnail in his head: FAKE MARTIAL ARTS EXPERT JANITOR GETS EXPOSED.