A Black Belt Champion Picked a Quiet Man for a Fight to Amuse the Crowd — He Smiled: “Are You Sure?”
Chapter 3
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Derek laughed into the microphone. "He thinks it's a bad idea for me! Oh, we got a comedian! Bring him up here! Bring him up!"Two burly event staff members, misinterpreting Derek's hype as an actual directive, stepped behind Thomas, gently but firmly nudging him toward the opening in the velvet ropes.Thomas didn't resist. He didn't stumble, either. He moved with the current of the crowd, stopping just at the edge of the blue polyurethane mat. He turned to a young woman standing nearby, holding a clipboard."Would you mind holding this for me, please?" he asked politely, handing her his half-full coffee cup.She took it automatically, staring at him with a mixture of pity and second-hand embarrassment.Thomas stepped onto the mat. He didn't take off his gray sweater. He didn't stretch. He simply walked to the center and stood there, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, his posture relaxed to the point of looking asleep.Derek tossed the microphone to the referee and cracked his neck loudly."All right, pop," Derek sneered, dropping his voice so only Thomas could hear. "I'm going to make you look real stupid, but I won't break anything. Just don't cry."Thomas looked at the younger man. The weariness left his eyes, replaced by a chilling, absolute stillness. A small, polite smile touched the corners of his mouth."Are you sure?" Thomas asked.The question hung in the air between them: "Are you sure?"It wasn't spoken with malice, nor was it a desperate plea for mercy. It was delivered with the clinical curiosity of a doctor asking a patient if they really wanted to know their diagnosis.Derek scoffed, offended by the utter lack of fear radiating from the older man. "Ring the bell," Derek snapped at the referee.A short buzzer sounded over the PA.Derek initiated immediately. He wanted to start with something flashy to set the tone: he lunged forward, feinting a jab to the face, and unleashed a high, snapping roundhouse kick aimed precisely an inch from the side of Thomas's head. The goal was to make the older man flinch, to make him cower and drop to the mat in terror while Derek stood over him laughing.The kick whipped through the air with a vicious snap of canvas, but Thomas wasn't there.He hadn't scrambled backward. He hadn't ducked wildly. He had simply pivoted on his left heel, shifting his torso back exactly two inches. The red synthetic leather of Derek's foot brushed the fabric of Thomas's sweater, disturbing nothing but the dust.Derek's momentum carried him slightly off-balance. He frowned, planting his foot and resetting his stance.A lucky flinch, he told himself.He bounced closer, throwing a rapid one-two combination of punches—a jab and a straight cross aimed at Thomas's chest. Fast, intimidating, designed to overwhelm.Thomas didn't raise his hands to block. Instead, he slipped: he moved his head to the outside of the jab, let the cross sail past his shoulder, and took one measured half-step forward.