Sarah pushed herself up off the wall, her voice raspy and panicked. "Cole, don't. He's a fourth-degree black belt. He's a former national champion."
Cole didn't look back at her. He didn't take off his shirt. He didn't stretch. He simply raised his hands, keeping his palms open and relaxed, his eyes locking onto Greg with the cold, mechanical detachment of a professional assessing a threat.
"Put five minutes on the clock," Cole said. The buzzer echoed through the silent gym, a sharp electronic shriek that signaled the start of the round. Greg didn't waste a second. He was aggressive, fueled by pride and a desperate need to reassert his dominance. He shot forward with an explosive double-leg takedown, driving his shoulder squarely into Cole's midsection. He expected Cole to sprawl, to fight the hands, to engage in the familiar rhythmic dance of grappling.
Instead, Cole simply absorbed the impact. He let Greg drive him backward, willingly falling to the mat and pulling Greg directly into his closed guard. For a brief second, Greg felt a surge of triumph. He was on top. He was in control.
He immediately began framing his forearms against Cole's ribs, trying to posture up and pass the guard. But the moment Greg shifted his weight, the reality of the situation rapidly, fundamentally altered. Cole was not playing for points or looking for a flashy submission. He tied Greg up at close range, broke his posture, and kept him trapped where strength and experience could not easily create space. What looked ordinary from a distance became suffocating under Cole's control. Greg's head remained pinned, his vision narrowed, and every attempt to lift himself only tightened the position.