The world tilted violently. He had spent hundreds of hours learning how to fall, how to break fall on thick mats. But there were no mats here, and Dougal wasn't giving him the time or space to fall correctly. Dougal rode him to the floor, maintaining complete structural control. Crofton hit the mahogany laminate hard, the breath exploding from his lungs in a sharp whoosh. Before Crofton could gasp for air, before he could attempt to bridge or roll, the fight was over. Dougal knelt beside him, pressing the point of his knee squarely into the floating ribs on Crofton's right side. Not hard enough to snap the bone, but with exactly enough pressure to make expanding the lungs agonizing. At the same time, Dougal had control of Crofton's right arm. It wasn't a standard armbar. Dougal had Crofton's wrist pinned against Dougal's own chest, the elbow hyperextended over Dougal's thigh, with Dougal's free hand resting casually on the back of Crofton's tricep. A single pound of downward pressure would shatter the joint. The entire exchange took less than 2 seconds. There was no scrambling, no yelling, no loud crashes, just the squeak of a sneaker, a heavy thud, and then silence.
From the bed, the monitors continued their steady indifferent beeping. Crofton lay pinned to the floor, gasping shallow ragged breaths. His eyes were wide, filled with a sudden overwhelming terror. He tried to pull his arm back, but it felt as though it were locked in a steel vise. The pain in his bicep throbbed, and the pressure on his ribs made every breath a fiery agony. He looked up. Dougal was looking down at him. Dougal wasn't sweating. He wasn't breathing heavily. His heart rate hadn't climbed above 80 beats per minute. His expression remained utterly unchanged, bored almost. "You're very strong," Dougal said quietly, his voice a calm murmur in the quiet room. "You have good technique, but you fight like a man who knows there's a referee to stop it if things go wrong."
Crofton stared at the nurse, his mind frantically trying to process the data. This wasn't happening. This middle-aged guy in scrubs couldn't have just taken him apart like a child's toy. "Who... What are you?" Crofton wheezed, the bravado entirely stripped from his voice. "I'm the guy trying to keep your father alive for another 72 hours," Dougal replied softly. "I'm the guy who's going to change his catheter in an hour and turn him so he doesn't get bed sores. That's who I am." Dougal leaned in slightly, shifting a fraction of his weight onto the knee pressing into Crofton's ribs. Crofton let out a sharp gasp, his eyes watering. "Now," Dougal continued, his tone conversational, "I'm going to let go of your arm. I'm going to stand up, and you are going to stay on the floor for exactly 10 seconds to catch your breath. Then, you are going to stand up, pick up your gym bag, and go down to the cafeteria. You will drink a cup of coffee. You will realize that the anger you are feeling right now is actually grief, and you will stop trying to hit people who are just trying to help. Do we understand each other, Mr. Gibson?" Crofton, trapped, humiliated, and suddenly profoundly aware of his own mortality and frailty, could only manage a frantic nod.