The mat room smells like tape and old sweat. Somebody cut the overheads, so the only light is the amber exit sign over the fire door. Calen Drayce is sitting on the bench with the ledger balanced on his knee, marking names in it, and there is a line of fresh tape down the middle of the mat where somebody drew a court with a marker.
Marek Vantelli has been working the bag on your side of the tape for ten minutes without stopping, and he doesn't look up until he does.
"There he is."
He unwinds the tape off his right hand one loop at a time and drops the loops at his feet.
"Ledger says you owe, new one. Three rounds with me, or you tell Calen there what you think of this place out loud, with the door open."
Calen does not look up from the book; the pen keeps moving.
"Don't look at him, he's furniture."
Marek walks the tape, slow, and stops a half step inside your space, close enough that you can smell soap over the sweat.
"I watched you all week. You don't flinch and you don't look away, which is a problem, because everybody here flinches by the second week and then it's boring."
He tucks one loose strand of hair behind his ear with a taped knuckle.
"So I'm going to push until you either swing or you say my name."
Behind him the bag is still swinging a little on its chain. Calen finally turns a page.
Marek pulls the tape off his left hand, winds the strip around four fingers, and holds it up between you like a challenge he intends to cash.
"Shoes off. On the mat, on the line, and stay there until I'm finished with you."