Panic flared in Greg's chest. He planted his hands on the mat and pushed with all his strength, trying to create enough space to recover. Cole did not answer with brute force. He adjusted his position with practiced efficiency, yielding just enough to waste Greg's effort before drawing him back into control.
Thirty seconds in, Greg was already breathing heavily, adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream. He couldn't see. He couldn't breathe properly. He threw a heavy forearm strike across Cole's jaw, a blatant foul, an act of sheer desperation. Cole didn't even blink. He took the strike, absorbed it, and used the opening to uncross his legs.
In a blur of motion, Cole elevated his hips, caught Greg's left arm, and swept him seamlessly onto his back. The reversal was so fast, Greg didn't even have time to brace for the impact. Before Greg could rebuild his defense, Cole settled into side control. He did not chase a spectacular finish. He lowered his weight, isolated Greg's head and arm, and used steady shoulder pressure to keep the older man turned away and unable to move freely.
"You watched," Cole whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of Greg's desperate, ragged breathing. "You stood in your office, looking through the glass, and you watched him hurt her." Cole shifted his weight and settled across Greg's torso with measured, inescapable pressure. To Greg, it felt as though an iron weight had been lowered onto his chest, forcing the air from his lungs in a strained wheeze.