Just a tap. Thorne flinched violently, a choked sob escaping his bloody lips entirely, surrendering. His ego broke in that single humiliating flinch. He realized with terrifying clarity that his black belt, his trophies, and his youth meant absolutely nothing to the man kneeling on his chest. Abby held his gaze for five agonizing seconds.
He let the silence do the heavy lifting. He let the reality of the situation burn itself into the young man’s preffrontal cortex. Then slowly, Abby released the wrist. He stood up. He didn’t look back at Thorne, who was rolling over, coughing violently and clutching his face.
He didn’t look at the entourage. He walked back to the edge of the mat, his left knee screaming in fiery protest, though his gate betrayed absolutely nothing. Gregory stood there, frozen. Abby stepped off the canvas. He picked up his woolen socks and pulled them on.
He stepped into his scuffed leather work boots, lacing them up with methodical precision. He picked up his canvas jacket and slipped it over his shoulders. “Arty,” Gregory finally breathed, his voice trembling slightly. Abby looked at his old friend. He offered a small, tired nod.
