of real men."
The gym was deathly silent. Even the most hardened trainers felt a twinge of
discomfort at the blatant cruelty. But no one intervened. Marcus was the
undisputed king, and Arthur was just the janitor.
Arthur didn't flinch when the mop was torn from his grasp. He didn't cower,
nor did he puff his chest in futile defiance. He stood perfectly still, his gray
eyes locking onto Marcus's fiery brown ones. The silence stretched, becoming
thick and suffocating.
Then, Arthur spoke. His voice didn't rise in volume, yet it seemed to carry to
every corner of the vast room.
"You are very strong, Mr. Vance," Arthur said slowly. "You hit very hard."
Marcus smirked, puffing out his chest. "I'm the hardest hitter in the world, old
man. I'm The Meteor."
Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "Tell me, young man," he began, taking a half-
step forward. The stoop in his shoulders seemed to diminish just a fraction.
"Of all the punches in your arsenal... which one do you trust the most? Which
is the punch you believe is truly unstoppable?"
The question threw Marcus off guard. He had expected begging, or perhaps a
fearful scurry away. Instead, this decrepit janitor was talking boxing with
him. The audacity of it fueled his ego further.
He laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You want a boxing lesson, grandpa?
Alright." Marcus dropped into his stance, a flawless display of modern boxing
technique. He shifted his weight, his muscles coiled like springs.
"My right cross," Marcus declared, tapping his right glove against his jaw. "It's
the executioner. When I plant my back foot and rotate my hips, it generates a
thousand pounds of force. No one stands up to it. It shatters guards, breaks
jaws, and turns out the lights. It's perfection."
He threw a mock punch into the air, the sheer speed of it creating a sharp