"This is a combat sport," Greg said, his voice hardening, adopting the tired cliché defense of gym enforcers everywhere. "Accidents happen. We push the pace here. If she can't handle the heat, she shouldn't be training. But we don't tolerate street thugs walking in and trying to act tough."
"Tough?" Cole repeated. A dark, hollow amusement flickered in his eyes. He looked around the room, taking in the bright fluorescent lights, the spotless mats, and the motivational posters plastered on the walls. It was a sterile laboratory, a playground where adults came to pretend they were warriors, secure in the knowledge that they could tap out whenever they got uncomfortable.
"You think this is tough?" Cole said softly, turning his attention back to Greg. "You put padding on the floor. You establish rules. You put a timer on the wall, and you convince yourselves you're dangerous. You let bullies prey on the weak because the environment protects them from real consequences."
Cole took a half-step forward. The atmosphere in the room seemed to turn ten degrees colder. "I don't mistake sport for the work I was trained to do, Greg. Where I operated, there were no timers and no referees, and mistakes carried consequences that could not be taken back. So don't talk to me about handling the heat."
Greg's face flushed dark red. The disrespect was unbearable. His ego, built on 20 years of local tournament wins and the reverence of his students, demanded an answer. He reached down and untied the knot of his heavy black belt, dropping it onto the mat. He pulled his gi top off, tossing it aside, revealing a tight, sweat-stained rash guard.
"You think you're a killer?" Greg snarled, dropping his chin, his stance widening. "You think you can come in here and disrespect my mats? Let's see what you've got against someone who actually knows how to fight. Five minutes. Just you and me."