Not loudly. Not for show.
Just enough for her to know someone had noticed.
...
The class ran for an hour. When it ended, Daniel stayed behind while Lily changed in the locker room.
That was when he noticed the teenager.
He was sitting alone near the back wall, sweeping the mat with a wide dust mop. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Thin. Quiet. The kind of kid who moved like he was always apologizing for taking up space.
Daniel remembered him.
On that day last fall, when Victor had demanded Daniel bow, this boy had been in the room. And when Victor raised his voice, this boy had lowered his eyes so fast it was almost a flinch.
Raymond followed Daniel's gaze.
"That's Ethan Brooks," he said softly. "He's been with us for four years. Brown belt. Talented. Very talented, actually."
"He doesn't look like he believes that."
Raymond sighed. "No. He doesn't."
"Victor?"
Raymond didn't answer right away. Then he nodded.
"For a long time, Victor used Ethan as his example. Whenever he wanted to show a technique, he'd call Ethan up. And he wouldn't go easy. He'd throw him. Pin him. Correct him in front of everyone. He called it toughening him up." Raymond rubbed his forehead. "I should have stopped it sooner. I told myself it was just Victor's style. That the kid would get stronger."
"Did he?"
"He got quieter."
Daniel watched Ethan push the mop in long, careful lines. Back and forth. Back and forth. Never looking up.
...
That night, Daniel made spaghetti.
It was the cheapest dinner he knew how to make that still felt like a real meal. A box of pasta. A jar of sauce. A little ground beef when he could afford it. Tonight, he couldn't, so he added extra onions and told Lily it was a special recipe.
She believed him. Or pretended to. He was never quite sure which.