The students scattered to bottles and benches. Ryan lingered, smirking, throwing glances toward the old man.
”Still here?“ he said, tone sharp enough for all to hear.
Thomas gave a small nod. Nothing more. Ryan frowned.
He had expected a reply, maybe a nervous chuckle. Instead, he got silence. One of the younger belts, a tall boy named Marcus with restless energy, nudged Ryan.
Maybe he can't hear you. He grinned. Old folks, right?
Their friends laughed again, though quieter now. Thomas's eyes moved once toward the boy, then back to the mat. No anger, no humor, only stillness.
Calm as stone weathered by years of wind. Ryan stepped closer. You watching, old man?
Taking notes or just reliving the glory days? The words hit something, but not on Thomas's face. Deep inside, a flicker stirred.
Dust swept from a memory long hidden. The smell of saltwater. The whine of rotors overhead.
Sand stinging eyes. A voice on a radio calling his name. He blinked once and the gym returned.
Children laughing. Students chatting. He pulled his sleeve down again.
Beneath the fabric, the scar burned with memory. Master Alvarez called the class back. Pairs grappling.
The room bustled once more. Thomas shifted his weight just slightly. Boots making no sound against the floor.
His eyes lingered on the mats. He studied every movement, every grip, every flaw. To the others it seemed idle watching, but to him it was instinct, assessment, calculation.
He could see where balance broke, where strength collapsed, where fear bloomed in hesitation. Ryan threw a glance his way mid-grapple as though daring him silently. Thomas did not move, but his hand brushed his pocket where a small piece of worn metal lay hidden.
A dog tag edges dulled, numbers faded. It had not left his pocket in twenty years. His fingers touched it now, not for show, but for grounding, a reminder.
The laughter swelled again on the mat, but the tone had changed. There was an edge of unease beneath it, and the old man stood calm, immovable, as though waiting. Ryan and Marcus paired together, eager to show off.
Their movements were fast, but sloppy beneath the polish. They slammed into the mat with a flourish, earning chuckles from the crowd of younger belts. Thomas watched.
His eyes narrowed only slightly. Every pivot, every shift of weight, he tracked. His mind was not in the gym.
It was in a dusty courtyard half a world away, where he had once read movements the same way, but with lives on the line. Ryan pinned Marcus, grinning, playing to the room. See that?
He said loudly, eyes flicking toward Thomas. Would have snapped a shoulder right there. He laughed as though his own skill were unquestionable.
For the first time, Thomas moved from the wall. He stepped forward, quiet, steady. A few parents glanced up.
One mother whispered, ”Is he going out there?“ He stopped short of the mat, boots planted evenly, and spoke softly.
”Your elbows open.“ Ryan frowned.
”What?“ Thomas's voice was calm, almost absent.
You left your arm unguarded. He could have broken free. Before Ryan could respond, Marcus, grinning mischievously, tried exactly that.