The beep was still ringing in my ears when Trent’s fist sliced through the empty air where Edward’s head had been a half-second before.
I didn’t even see the old man move. That’s the part that still messes with my head when I think about it too long. One second Edward was standing there like a statue, hands loose, chin tucked, and the next second he was just… somewhere else. Not fast the way Trent was fast. Not explosive. Just *gone*, like smoke slipping through fingers.
Trent’s momentum carried him forward two stumbling steps. His eyes went wide. I could see the confusion flash across his face, that split-second disbelief when your brain can’t reconcile what your body just felt.
He spun around, gloves up, breathing hard through his nose.
Edward stood three feet to Trent’s left. His hands were still in that same weird position, near his collarbones, palms open. His feet were planted like tree roots.
He hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“What the—” Trent started.
“Your jab is a lie,” Edward said quietly.
The words cut through the silence like a knife through wet paper.
“You load your weight before you throw it. Your shoulder dips. Your eyes go to your target a full beat early. Anybody who’s been hit before can read you like a children’s book.”
Trent’s face twisted. That crimson flush I’d seen earlier was spreading down his neck now, blotching across his cheeks.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Edward took one step forward. Just one.
Trent took one step back.
I heard somebody behind me inhale sharply. I couldn’t turn to look because I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the mat.
“Three minutes,” Edward said. “You asked for three minutes. We’re twelve seconds in.”
He raised his hands slightly, that same loose, open guard.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
—
Trent didn’t rush this time. I’ll give him that much credit. Whatever else he was—arrogant, cruel, entitled—he wasn’t completely stupid.
He circled. Edward pivoted in place, keeping his chest facing Trent at all times. It was like watching a compass needle track north.
Trent feinted. I saw it clear as day—a shoulder dip that was supposed to make Edward flinch or raise his guard. But Edward didn’t react. His eyes stayed locked on Trent’s sternum, not his hands, not his face.
“Better,” Edward said. “But you’re still throwing your feints from your shoulders. They need to come from your hips. Otherwise, it’s just theater.”
“What are you, some kind of karate philosopher?” Trent spat.
“I’m a man who’s been hit more times than you’ve thrown punches.”
Trent lunged.
He was fast—I’ll never take that away from him. The kid was genuinely gifted. He threw a three-punch combination that would have dropped most guys in that gym. Jab to the face, cross to the jaw, hook to the liver.
It was beautiful technique. Textbook.
Edward slipped the jab by a millimeter. He rolled under the cross, letting it whistle past his ear. And the hook—he didn’t even dodge the hook. He stepped *into* it, smothering the power before it could land, catching Trent’s wrist with his off-hand and yanking him off balance.
Trent stumbled forward, his free arm pinwheeling.
Edward let go.
Trent caught himself on the cage fence, the chain-link rattling in protest. His breath was coming in ragged gasps now.
“You’re heavy on your lead foot,” Edward said. “When you throw the hook, you shift your weight too far forward. If I’d held onto that wrist, you’d be face-down on the mat right now.”
Trent shoved himself off the fence, eyes wild.
“Shut up,” he hissed around his mouthpiece. “Just shut up and fight.”
“I am fighting,” Edward said. “You’re the one who’s losing.”
—
The clock on the wall read two minutes and forty seconds remaining.
Somewhere behind me, I heard Kevin whisper something I couldn’t make out. The other guys along the wall were completely frozen, like mannequins posing for a display. Nobody was checking their phones. Nobody was stretching. Nobody was doing anything except watching the impossible thing unfolding on the mat.
Trent came in again, but this time he was angrier. Slower. His combinations were getting wilder, sloppier. He threw a big overhand right that was so telegraphed I could have dodged it from the cheap seats.
Edward didn’t dodge it.
He caught it.
Not with his gloves—he wasn’t wearing any. He caught Trent’s wrist out of the air with his bare hand, the same way you’d catch a thrown baseball. The impact made a sound like a wet slap, and then Edward just… held him there.
Trent’s eyes went wide. He tried to pull his arm back, but Edward’s grip was iron. I could see the tendons standing out on the old man’s forearm, thick and roped like ship cables.
“You’re panicking,” Edward said. “You’re fighting from fear now. Fear makes you predictable.”
He released Trent’s wrist with a small shove.
Trent staggered backward, cradling his arm like it had been burned.
“Stop it,” Trent said. His voice cracked on the second word. “Stop talking like you know me.”
“I don’t need to know you,” Edward said. “I know fighters. I was one for twenty-two years. You’re not the first cocky kid I’ve met. You won’t be the last.”
The mat creaked as Edward shifted his weight.
“But I’ll tell you what I see. I see a young man who’s spent his whole life being told he’s special. Being told he’s a natural. Being told he’s the best in the room. And maybe he is. Maybe in this room, on this mat, he’s the fastest, strongest, most talented fighter here.”
Trent’s jaw tightened.
