“Tap! I tap! Let go! ” One second.

Derek let out a choked sob of genuine terror. Two seconds, three seconds.

Cole finally released the grip. He stood up in one smooth motion, not even breathing heavily. He looked down at the black belt, who was curled into a fetal position, clutching his arm and gasping for breath, completely stripped of his armor.

“In a real fight,” Cole said, his voice carrying clearly across the dead silent gym, “nobody stops. ”

The silence in the room wasn’t just quiet, it was heavy. It possessed a physical weight pressing down on the 30-odd people standing frozen on the canvas.

Nobody rushed to help Derek.

Nobody offered him a hand. They just stared, their eyes darting between the second-degree black belt curled on the floor and the stranger standing over him in plain athletic shorts.

The hierarchy of the room had just been completely dismantled in less than a minute.

Derek scrambled backward, his sweaty back sliding against the padded cinder block wall.

His right arm hung awkwardly at his side.

He cradled his elbow against his ribs, his chest heaving violently. The sheer unadulterated panic that had gripped him moments before was slowly receding, replaced by the hot toxic flush of humiliation.

His ego, severely bruised and bleeding out in front of his audience, demanded a reaction.

He needed to salvage his identity. “You son of a! ” Derek spat, his voice trembling with a mixture of pain and rage. “You cranked it! You came in here off the street and cranked a submission!

That’s assault! I could have the cops here in 5 minutes! ” Uh, Cole didn’t flinch. He didn’t shift his weight. He just looked at Derek the way a man looks at a stubborn stain on the pavement. There was no triumph in his posture, no chest puffing.

“Call them,” Cole said, his voice flat. “Tell them you put a blood choke on a 26-year-old girl, ignored her tapping for 3 seconds, and put her to sleep because your feelings were hurt. I’ll wait right here. ” Derek opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

He looked around the room, silently begging for someone, anyone, to back him up. The software engineers, the accountants, the blue and purple belts who usually laughed at his terrible jokes, all looked away.

They suddenly found the texture of the floor mats incredibly interesting. “What the hell’s going on here? ” The voice boomed from the back office.

The heavy wooden door swung open, and Greg marched out. Greg was the gym owner and head instructor.

He was a man in his late 40s with thick cauliflower ears, a barrel chest, and a black belt heavily frayed at the edges, adorned with four red stripes.