Her Black Belt Ex Tried to Humiliate Me at the Dojo — He Didn’t Know Who I Was
Chapter 3
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And right in the center of the mats, holding court, was Brandon.He was exactly what I expected: tall, maybe 6'2", heavily muscled with a tribal tattoo snaking down his left arm. He was wearing a custom-fitted black uniform, a heavily frayed black belt tied perfectly around his waist. He was currently demonstrating a joint lock on a much smaller, younger student. Brandon wasn't just showing the technique, he was inflicting it: the younger kid's face was contorted in genuine pain, tapping frantically against Brandon's leg. Brandon held the lock for three full seconds after the tap before casually dropping the kid to the mat. He said something loudly to the surrounding circle of students who all laughed dutifully—alpha-male posturing, textbook.Sarah stiffened beside me, her steps faltering. I placed a hand gently on the small of her back, a silent physical anchor. We stepped onto the edge of the viewing area, waiting for him to finish his speech.It took him less than 30 seconds to spot her. A predator always notices when old prey wanders back into the territory. His eyes locked onto Sarah, ignoring me completely at first; a wide, shark-like grin spread across his face. He clapped his hands together, dismissing the class to pair up and drill, stepped off the mats—not bothering to wipe his bare feet—and swaggered over to the half-wall separating the training area from the walkway."Well, well, well," Brandon boomed, his voice pitched to carry over the gym noise, ensuring everyone nearby was watching. "Sarah... wow, look at you. You look tired. Life outside the gym taking its toll?"It was an immediate, calculated strike at her self-esteem. Sarah pulled her shoulders back. "Hello, Brandon. I'm just here for my dad's watch. I emailed you about it."Brandon leaned his thick forearms against the half-wall, his eyes finally lazily drifting over to me. He took in my faded jeans, my plain gray T-shirt, my average build. At 5'10" and a lean 180 pounds, I didn't look like much; I certainly didn't look like the roided-out monsters grunting on his heavy bags."And who's this?" Brandon asked, his tone dripping with exaggerated amusement. "Your accountant?""This is Cole," Sarah said, her voice tighter now. "Can you just get the watch, please?""Cole," Brandon tested the name, smirking. He reached over the wall, offering a hand.I looked at it for a second, then calmly reached out and shook it. His grip was an immediate attempt at a crush: he squeezed as hard as he could, trying to force a reaction, trying to establish physical dominance before a real word was even spoken. I kept my hand relaxed. I didn't squeeze back. I just let him crush my knuckles, my face entirely blank, my heart rate holding steady at 60 beats per minute. When you've had a terrorist press a loaded Makarov to your forehead in a dark alley in Raqqa, a gym bro squeezing your hand feels like a slight breeze.Brandon's brow furrowed slightly when I didn't wince, didn't pull away, didn't engage in the primate grip war. He let go, wiping his hand on his pants as if touching me had soiled him.