Jerome slowly rested the mop handle against the wall. His eyes, usually cast downward, finally met Derek's. The sheer intensity in Jerome's gaze caused Derek to instinctively step back, but his pride quickly overrode his survival instinct.
"Fight me," Derek demanded, his voice carrying across the silent hall. The students froze. All eyes turned to the confrontation.
"One round," Derek grinned wildly, playing to the crowd. "It'll be hilarious. A janitor versus a black belt. Come on, tough guy. Show us what the army taught you."
Laughter erupted from Derek's loyal circle. Phones were pulled out to record the spectacle. Jerome stood perfectly still, his breathing shifting into a controlled, rhythmic pattern. The muscle memory he had suppressed for years was screaming to be unleashed. He closed his eyes, fighting the violent storm rising within him.
Before Jerome could speak, the heavy glass doors of the dojo swung open with a resounding thud. The chatter in the room died instantly.
Standing in the doorway was Walter Griffin, the head instructor and owner of the academy. Walter was a traditionalist, a highly respected martial artist who had just returned from a four-month tour on the tournament circuit. His stern eyes swept over the scene: the spilled water, the jeering students, Derek aggressively posturing, and Jerome standing quietly in the center.
"What is going on here?" Walter's voice boomed, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Derek puffed out his chest, eager to impress his master. "Just having some fun, Sensei. I challenged the janitor to a sparring match. Teaching him some respect."
Walter Griffin did not look at Derek. His eyes locked onto Jerome. He took in the broad shoulders, the subtle but undeniable combat stance, and the calm, steady gaze. Then, a look of absolute shock washed over Walter's weathered face.