Sean's eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.
"You're gonna pay for this, Graves," he said, voice low and tight. "I don't care what you think you earned. You're gonna pay."
Damon didn't flinch.
Sean's hand moved to his jacket zipper and tugged it down in one motion. With a dramatic flourish, he peeled off the jacket and tossed it aside. Then, with the same fire, he grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and yanked it over his head, revealing the sculpted body of someone who trained like it was religion. His muscles were defined, his torso littered with the small scars of years of competition. He looked every bit the fighter he claimed to be.
Gasps rose from a group of students walking by.
Some paused.
Then more joined them.
One of Sean's boys whistled sharply. "Looks like we got an audience."
Damon shifted slightly and glanced to his right. More students were gathering. They lined the edges of the narrow alley beside the gym, climbing onto benches, backpacks left forgotten on the ground.
Sean cracked his knuckles, rotating his shoulders, putting on a show. He bounced lightly on his feet, threw out a few warm-up jabs into the air, then spun into a high, clean roundhouse that cut through the wind with precision. There was no doubt—he was skilled. Quick. Fluid. Dangerous.
A few students clapped.
"He's serious this time," someone murmured.
Another voice chimed in, louder. "Yo! Is that Damon Graves?"
"Yeah, the guy who beat Sean yesterday!"
"No way—he looks like a twig!"
"Twig or not, he smoked Sean. You should've seen it."
As the crowd thickened, so did the tension. There was a buzz in the air now, like static clinging to skin. Excitement. Anticipation. The kind of energy that only comes before a storm.
Sean stepped forward and pointed a finger at Damon. "You wanna prove it wasn't a fluke? Let's do it. Right now. No refs. No rules. Just you and me."
Damon stared at him.
Unmoving.
Unimpressed.
He didn't care for dramatics. He didn't care for crowds. He definitely didn't care for putting on a show.
But he hated being challenged like he was a thief in his own right.
The voices grew louder.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!"
Students began chanting it in waves, hands clapping, sneakers stomping the ground like drums of war.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!"
Still, Damon didn't move.
Sean grinned. "What's wrong? Scared I'll get my spot back?"
Damon blinked slowly.
Then, without a word, he reached for the strap of his backpack and slipped it off his shoulder.
He let it fall gently to the ground beside him.
The second it touched the pavement, the crowd erupted.
Cheers rang out. Phones shot into the air as students started recording. Some climbed onto the surrounding railings for a better view. Others pushed to the front, eyes wide, eager for the moment fists would fly.
But Damon didn't hear them.
His eyes stayed on Sean.
Focused. Steady.
No adrenaline. No fear.
Just silence.
The kind that comes before impact.
Sean's chest was rising with steady breath, his fists coiled, ready to strike. Damon, on the other hand, stood loosely—arms at his sides, body still. His eyes never wavered, unreadable behind that calm expression.
Then it happened.
Sean moved.
He launched forward with a powerful front kick aimed at Damon's ribs. A textbook strike—fast, clean, full of purpose.
Damon sidestepped.
Effortless.
The kick met empty air, and Sean stumbled half a step before recovering.
He spun, immediately transitioning into a backfist aimed for Damon's temple.
Damon leaned back just enough for it to slice by, then shifted his weight, pivoted on his heel, and glided out of range.
The crowd murmured.
Sean pressed again, swinging low this time—a sweep intended to take Damon off his feet.
Damon hopped over it.
No wasted motion.
And before Sean could even complete the follow-through, Damon tapped the back of his head with two fingers.
Tap.
Sean turned fast, enraged—but Damon was already a step away, unreadable, still relaxed.
"Stop running!" Sean barked.
But Damon wasn't running.
He was dancing.
Sean came at him again, this time with a flurry of strikes—punches aimed at the chest, ribs, jaw. A palm thrust, a knee, a quick elbow jab.
Damon weaved through them all.
And every time Sean missed, Damon made sure to leave a little message.
Pat on the shoulder.
Slap on the back of the head.
A light flick to Sean's ear as he spun past him.
Mocking, yet somehow casual—like swatting a fly.
The laughter started in little bursts from the edge of the crowd.
Then it spread.
First a few snickers.
Then chuckles.
Then full-on laughter.
Someone whistled.
"Yo, he's playing with him!"
"Sean's getting schooled!"
Another student shouted, "Stop shadow-boxing, Donovan!"
Sean heard it.
He heard all of it.
The voices. The laughter. The clapping hands and howling students recording every missed punch.
His face flushed red, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might crack.
He tried again, this time with a leaping sidekick—his specialty.
Damon stepped just an inch aside, letting the kick glide past harmlessly.
And as Sean landed hard on his foot, stumbling slightly from the overextension, Damon walked casually behind him and gave him a light slap to the back of his head.
Not hard.
Just enough.
The crowd howled.
Sean spun around, fists trembling, face burning with humiliation.
Damon didn't say a word.
He just stood there.
Still.
At ease.
And entirely unshaken.
Sean had come here for revenge.
But all he was getting… was a lesson.
And the laughter of the crowd only made it worse.
Because in front of everyone—in front of all the students he used to intimidate, in front of the girls who once swooned, and the boys who used to admire him—Sean Donovan was being made to look like a fool.