"Just looking," Derek says, walking further into the room. His two friends trail behind him, camera still rolling. "My dad's been trying to get his hands on this lot for months. Guess I wanted to see what all the fuss was about."
He kicks lightly at a folding chair, knocking it sideways. One of his friends laughs. Ruth flinches at the sound, but she says nothing.
Arthur steps forward, his voice calm but firm. "We are in the middle of a class. I would appreciate it if you kept it down."
Derek looks past him at the row of gray-haired students in their loose-fitting uniforms. A small smile crosses his face—the kind of smile that never reaches the eyes.
"A class?" he repeats. "For what, exactly? Learning how to use a walker with better form?"
A few of the seniors shift uncomfortably. Walter's jaw tightens, but he holds his tongue—the way a man does when he has spent decades staying calm in front of people who are scared. Vivian, still at the back of the room, keeps mopping. Her grip on the handle tightens just slightly. Nobody notices.
Derek circles the room like he is inspecting property, because in his mind, that is exactly what he is doing. He runs a hand along the edge of the mirror. He peels a corner of a flyer taped to the wall—the one advertising the Golden Years class. He lets it fall to the floor.
"You know," he says, turning back toward the class, "my dad's going to knock this whole building down. Put in a real gym: smart machines, personal trainers who actually know what they're doing."
"This dojang has been open for thirty-eight years," Arthur says quietly. "It has taught three generations of this town."
"And it looks like it," Derek says, gesturing at the peeling paint. "No offense, old man, but this place is a joke. All of you standing around playing dress-up in these uniforms. You think any of you could actually defend yourselves?"
He laughs. His two friends laugh along with him, one still filming, angling the phone to catch every reaction in the room.
Ruth speaks up then, her voice steady despite the tremor underneath it. "We are not here to fight you. We are here to learn how to protect ourselves. There is a difference."
Derek turns toward her, his smile sharpening. "Protect yourselves from what? Squirrels?"
A ripple of nervous laughter comes from his friends. The room otherwise stays quiet. Ruth's cheeks flush, embarrassment mixing with anger, but she does not back down.
"From people exactly like you," she says.
The words hang in the air a beat too long. Derek's smile disappears.
Harold Byrne stands near the back, cane in hand. He takes a small step forward, his old mail carrier instincts kicking in—the ones that taught him never to let a stranger corner someone.
"That's enough now, son," Harold says. His voice is steadier than his knees. "Nobody here wants trouble."
Derek barely glances at him. "Sit down, old man, before you throw your back out."
Dotty reaches over and pulls Harold back a step. Her hand trembles slightly on his arm. Nobody in this room is looking for a fight; that has never been the point of any of it. Still, a few others in the class shift closer together: a quiet, unspoken circling of wagons. It comes naturally to people who have spent decades looking out for one another.
Derek steps toward Ruth, closing distance in three quick strides. Walter moves immediately: he places himself between Derek and Ruth, his arms loose at his sides, his stance solid. Decades of instinct guide his feet without him even thinking about it.
"That's enough," Walter says. His voice is low, but it fills the room.
Derek looks him up and down, taking in the gray hair, the lines on his face, the slight stoop in his shoulders that comes from carrying too much weight up too many stairs over too many years.