He stood frozen in the doorway, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie.
He looked directly at me for a long moment.
Then his eyes slowly drifted down to the detached carbon fiber prosthetic leaning against the rusty metal locker.
He did not sneer, and he did not make a cruel joke about taxpayer dollars.
“We’re closed,” I said quietly, breaking the heavy silence.
I didn’t even bother raising my guard or shifting my posture.
I just casually kept wiping the sweat from my damaged leg.
“I know,” Trent said, his voice surprisingly subdued.
The arrogant, aggressive gravel was completely gone from his tone.
“I saw Vic leave an hour ago,” he continued softly.
“I saw the lights were still on through the front window.”
I reached down, grabbed a plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol, and unscrewed the cap.
I poured a small amount onto a cloth and began cleaning the silicone sleeve of my prosthetic.
The sharp, sterile chemical smell instantly filled the small, damp room.
“You forget something in your locker?” I asked without looking up.
“No,” Trent said, shifting his weight uncomfortably.
He leaned his broad shoulder heavily against the chipped metal door frame.
He looked absolutely exhausted, with deep, dark circles under his eyes.
It was the specific kind of profound exhaustion that comes from a brain refusing to shut off at night.
“I haven’t trained in almost two weeks,” he confessed softly.
“Take a rest day,” I muttered, still focused entirely on my equipment.
“It’s good for the joints to take a break.”
“I went to a different gym last week,” Trent admitted.
The words spilled out of him rapidly, like a deeply reluctant admission of intense guilt.
“A really fancy place downtown. Beautiful air-conditioning, mat-side towel service, the works.”
I didn’t respond, letting the chemical smell of the alcohol linger between us.
“The guys there, they fight exactly like I do,” Trent continued, his voice laced with sudden disgust.
“They bounce around constantly. They throw flashy spin kicks that look great on camera.”
He paused, looking down at the cracked floor tiles.
“They worry entirely about how they look in the wall mirrors.”
I picked up my heavy prosthetic leg, carefully aligning the carbon socket with my scarred knee.
I pushed down firmly, feeling the intense vacuum seal grab my sensitive skin with a familiar, uncomfortable pinch.
I slowly stood up, testing my full weight on the specialized rubber sole.
It clicked sharply and loudly against the hard locker room tile.
“Sounds like you successfully found your crowd,” I said evenly.
I grabbed the heavy canvas strap of my gym bag and hauled it over my shoulder.
“Turn the lights out when you leave,” I instructed calmly.
“I’ve got a mop bucket waiting for me out there.”
“How did you do it?” Trent blurted out suddenly.
The desperate question hung suspended in the humid, bleach-scented air between us.
I stopped right at the narrow doorway, forced to pass within mere inches of his broad chest.
I didn’t move out of his way, and I didn’t break eye contact.
“How did I trip you?” I asked, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
“How did you make me feel like I was actually going to die?” Trent corrected softly.
His eyes met mine directly, and for the first time since I had met him, he looked entirely human.
He looked completely and utterly stripped of his expensive, arrogant armor.
“I’m significantly stronger than you,” Trent whispered, almost pleading for an answer.
“I’m faster. I have been aggressively training for six solid years.”
He shook his head, his brow furrowing in deep confusion.
“I know every single technical escape from the bottom guard position.”
He reached up and gently touched the fading yellow bruise on his neck.
“But when you put your heavy arm on my throat, I completely forgot everything.”
He took a shaky breath, his eyes wide with remembered panic.
“I couldn’t draw a single breath. I completely panicked.”
He stared at me, desperate for a logical explanation.
“Why did I panic like that?”
I looked silently at the wealthy younger man standing before me.
I saw right past the expensive, perfectly styled haircut and the broad, muscular shoulders.
I saw a frightened kid who had built a massive fortress entirely out of wet cardboard.
He had just finally experienced his very first real thunderstorm, and it had washed his entire world away.
“Because you play a game with strict rules,” I said flatly.
“And I don’t.”
I didn’t wait for his reaction.
I pushed past him, walking out of the dim locker room and onto the massive main gym floor.
The only illumination came from the buzzing security halogens mounted outside the barred street windows.
They cast long, stark, prison-like shadows directly across the blue vinyl mats.
I walked purposefully over to the small, cramped janitor’s closet in the back corner.
I pulled out the heavy industrial yellow mop bucket and shoved it roughly beneath the metal slop sink.
The rusty, ancient pipes groaned loudly as I forcibly cranked the hot water valve open.
Thick steam immediately began to rise, smelling strongly of raw bleach and cheap pine cleaner.
“That’s a massive cop-out,” Trent said from the shadows.
He had followed me out and was now standing hesitantly at the very edge of the training mats.
“It wasn’t just some dirty street fighting trick,” he argued softly.
“It was perfect leverage. It was flawless weight distribution.”
He took a single step closer, his eyes locked entirely on my hands.
“You knew exactly where my center of gravity was shifting before I even threw the damn punch.”
I casually poured a generous capful of industrial liquid soap into the rapidly rising hot water.
“You threw a massive, looping haymaker you probably saw in an action movie,” I explained calmly.
“You foolishly threw your body weight entirely past your own lead knee.”
