walked over to where Arthur was working. He didn't speak right away; he
just stood there, finally truly seeing the man in front of him.
Arthur paused his mopping and looked up, the gray eyes assessing the young
fighter once more.
"I... I'm sorry," Marcus stammered, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. It
was the first genuine apology he had offered in years. "I was out of line. I was
disrespectful."
Arthur held his gaze for a long moment before nodding slowly. "The floor is
clean now, Mr. Vance."
"Teach me," Marcus blurted out. "Please. That thing you did... how you
moved. I need to learn that."
Arthur smiled, a small, sad smile that reached his eyes. "I am just a janitor,
Marcus. I clean floors. If you want to learn to fight, you must first learn how
to stand."
The next morning, Marcus arrived at the gym before the sun had risen. The
sycophants were gone. The flashy entourage was nowhere to be seen. He
wore plain gray sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt.
He walked over to the supply closet and pulled out a mop and a bucket. When
Arthur arrived an hour later, he found the undisputed heavyweight
champion of the world meticulously scrubbing the scuff marks off the
linoleum floor.
Arthur didn't say a word. He simply walked to the corner, picked up a broom,
and began to sweep. They worked in silence for an hour, the rhythmic sound
of cleaning replacing the usual symphony of violence.
When the floor was spotless, Arthur finally stopped. He looked at Marcus,
noting the sweat on the young man's brow and the quiet focus in his eyes.
"Good," Arthur said softly. "Tomorrow, we learn how to breathe."