“Ten seconds, Mr. Bell. I’ll donate five hundred dollars to the youth program if I can’t.”
A teenager shouted, “Do it!”
Another yelled, “Come on, Mr. Bell!”
Walter looked toward Marcus.
Marcus shook his head.
Don’t.
Walter looked back at Dylan.
“What happens if you do?”
Dylan spread his arms.
“Everybody gets a laugh.”
That sentence changed something.
It was small.
Walter’s face barely moved.
But Marcus saw the eyes.
Dylan did not.
Walter parked the mop bucket beside the wall.
He removed the yellow rubber gloves from his hands.
Then he asked, very calmly,
“Want me to go easy?”
The room erupted.
Dylan bent forward laughing.
Someone slapped the wall.
One of the teenagers nearly dropped his phone.
Walter waited.
No smile.
No performance.
Just waiting.
That was the first moment Marcus felt the old instinct return.
The one he had developed during thirty years around combat sports.
Something is wrong.
Not dangerous.
Not yet.
But wrong in the way a locked door feels wrong when you expected it to open.
Dylan straightened.
“You serious?”
Walter nodded.
“If you want me on the mat, I need to know.”
Dylan grinned.
“Oh, I want you on the mat.”
Walter stepped forward.
He removed his work shoes.
Then he slowly walked toward the edge of the mat.
The laughter continued.
Until Walter crossed the boundary.
Then, almost immediately, it stopped.
Marcus noticed something.
Walter's posture had changed.
The slight bend disappeared.
The tremor in his left hand stopped.
His shoulders relaxed.
His eyes became completely still.
And suddenly, the old janitor did not look old at all.
The Ten-Second Bet
Dylan rolled his neck.
“Ready?”
Walter nodded.
The event organizer looked uncertain.
“Maybe we should—”
Dylan interrupted.
“It’s fine.”
Walter glanced at the organizer.
“I won't hurt him.”
Dylan laughed.
“You're worried about hurting me?”
“No,” Walter said.
“I’m worried about embarrassing you.”
The crowd exploded.
Dylan’s face hardened.
Marcus closed his eyes briefly.
He knew that look.
Dylan had been praised too much.
Too young.
Too often.
He had become convinced that every challenge was an insult and every victory was proof that he was destined for something greater.
The referee stepped between them.
“Light contact. No slams. No joint attacks beyond controlled submissions.”
Dylan nodded.
Walter said nothing.
The timer was set for thirty seconds.