Logan stepped entirely off the mat, closing the distance until he was only a few feet away from the old man. "You had a lot of opinions a minute ago about how I fight. So show me. Show me this perfect control you're talking about."
Marcus grabbed Logan's arm. "Logan, I swear to God, this is going to end badly."
Logan yanked his arm away. "For who? For the guy who can barely walk without a limp?"
Marcus looked at Henry. A strange, unreadable expression passed between the coach and the janitor. Marcus sighed, stepping back. He didn't say another word.
That silence fed Logan's ego perfectly. If even Marcus was stepping aside, it meant Logan owned the room. He walked backward onto the center of the mat, tapping his gloves together. "Come on, old man. Thirty seconds."
Henry sighed. It wasn't a sigh of fear. It was a sigh of profound, exhausting patience. He let go of the mop. He turned to face Logan.
"Young man, I am sixty-three years old," Henry said softly.
"Exactly. You've got that old-man strength, right?" Logan mocked.
"I'm not interested in your games."
Derek laughed loudly. "He's terrified, Logan. Let it go. He's gonna have a heart attack."
Henry slowly shifted his gaze to Derek, staring directly into the camera lens. There was no anger in the old man's eyes. No embarrassment. No fragile pride. Just an overwhelming, terrifying calmness.
Logan spread his arms wide, welcoming the challenge. "Try not to get hurt, Henry."
Marcus Reed walked over to the wall, leaned against it, and slowly closed his eyes.
Chapter 3: The Thirty Seconds
Henry didn't take off his shoes. He didn't remove his work shirt. He simply walked to the edge of the mat, his right leg dragging slightly, and stepped onto the blue foam.
He didn't raise his hands into a traditional fighting stance. He just stood there, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his shoulders relaxed. He looked like a man waiting for a bus in the rain, entirely unimpressed by the heavily tattooed, muscular fighter bouncing aggressively in front of him.
"We rolling?" Logan asked Derek.
"Rolling, bro. Light him up."
Logan tapped his own gloves together and darted forward. He decided he wouldn't hit the old man hard—he wasn't a monster. He just wanted to make him flinch. He wanted to throw a flurry of lightning-fast strikes that stopped an inch from Henry's face, forcing the old man to cower and apologize for speaking out of turn. It would be great content.
Logan fired a lightning-fast left jab straight at Henry's nose.
What happened next defied all logic.
Henry didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He simply tilted his head a fraction of an inch to the right. The padded glove hissed past his ear, cutting through empty air.
Logan's eyes widened in surprise. Lucky guess, he thought.
He quickly followed up with a right cross, aiming for the old man's chest to push him back. But Henry wasn't there. The old man had pivoted on his good leg, shifting his entire body weight with a terrifying, liquid grace. Logan's fist hit nothing, and his momentum carried him slightly forward.
Before Logan could retract his arm, he felt something touch his wrist.
It was Henry's hand. The old man hadn't grabbed him; he had merely placed his palm against Logan's forearm. But the moment skin met skin, Logan felt an invisible, immovable force. It was like resting his arm against a steel beam.