snapping sound. The entourage murmured in appreciative awe.
Arthur watched the display without blinking. The gray in his eyes seemed to
solidify into steel.
"A thousand pounds of force," Arthur mused. "Perfection." He slowly reached
up and removed his faded cap, placing it carefully on a nearby stool. He
rolled his shoulders, a subtle movement that belied a sudden, terrifying
looseness in his frame.
"I am an old man, Mr. Vance," Arthur said. "My bones are brittle, and my
reflexes are gone. But I have seen many punches in my time."
He took another step forward, planting his feet firmly on the linoleum. He
didn't raise his hands. He just stood there, completely open, completely
vulnerable.
"Throw it," Arthur commanded softly.
Marcus blinked, momentarily confused. "What?"
"Throw your perfect right cross at me," Arthur repeated. "Show me the punch
you trust the most."
The atmosphere in the gym instantly shifted from uncomfortable silence to
electric shock. The trainers exchanged horrified glances. Marcus's manager
took a frantic step forward. "Hey, old man, are you crazy? He'll kill you!
Marcus, back off, this is a lawsuit waiting to happen."
But Marcus held up a hand, silencing his manager. The arrogant smirk was
back on his face. This was too good an opportunity to pass up. He could put
this insolent old fool in his place with a single, controlled shot. He wouldn't
hit him with full force, of course—just enough to drop him and make a point.
"You asked for it, old timer," Marcus sneered.
He circled Arthur, who remained stationary, his hands still relaxed by his
sides. Marcus bounced on his toes, feinting a jab. Arthur didn't react.
Marcus decided to end it. He planted his back foot. His hips twisted with