“Good evening. Welcome to the Obsidian Grill. I’m Mack, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”
Braden didn’t even look up from his phone. “Took you long enough, old man.”
“Bring us three bottles of the Crystal, and don’t bring the cheap glasses. Also, get us three Tomahawk steaks, rare. If it’s overcooked, I’m making you eat it.” The entourage chuckled. Chloe rested her hand on Braden’s shoulder, smiling at his supposed wit.
“Three bottles of Crystal, three Tomahawks, rare.” Mack repeated, his tone completely neutral. He wrote nothing down. “Any appetizers while you wait?”
Braden finally looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Mack. The champion was used to deference. He was used to awe. He expected waiters to stutter, to ask for autographs, to tremble slightly in his presence. But looking into Mack’s pale blue eyes, Braden found absolutely nothing. No fear, no respect. Just a profound, impenetrable emptiness, like looking into a deep, freezing ocean. It irritated Braden immediately.
“Did I ask for appetizers, Mack?” Braden said, leaning back in his chair, intentionally mispronouncing the server’s name to sound like a mock.
“No, sir.” Mack replied evenly.
“Then just bring what I ordered and move fast. I hate waiting.” Mack gave a slight, courteous nod and turned away.
As he walked toward the kitchen, he mentally cataloged Braden’s physiology. The fighter favored his right side, likely a dominant right-hand striker. His neck was thick, muscled to resist chokes, but his posture at the table was sloppy, his weight shifted entirely to his back leg. “He’s an athlete.” Mack thought, pushing through the swinging kitchen doors. “Not a warrior.”
An hour later, the tension in the dining room had thickened from a slight annoyance to a suffocating blanket of dread. Braden’s table had become the black hole of the restaurant, sucking all the energy and joy out of the room. They had grown louder, more obnoxious, and heavily intoxicated. Braden had already sent back two side dishes, claiming the truffle mash was garbage, and had loudly insulted a busboy who had accidentally brushed against his chair. Sylvia was pacing near the hostess stand, visibly sweating. Several tables had requested their checks early, unable to endure the crude language and boisterous shouting radiating from the champions table.
Through it all, Mack remained the eye of the hurricane. He delivered the food with the same mechanical precision, ignoring the insults, the dismissive waves, and the deliberate provocations. The boiling point arrived with the presentation of the check. The bill was astronomical, totaling over $4,000. Mack placed the leather binder on the table, setting it down gently near Braden’s right hand.
“Whenever you are ready, sir.” Mack said softly. Braden, his face flushed from the champagne and his ego pumped full by hours of sycophantic praise from Eric and his sparring partners, snatched the leather binder. He opened it, scanned the total, and scoffed. “Four grand?” Braden said loudly, ensuring the tables around them could hear.
“For this absolute trash? The steaks were chewy, the champagne wasn’t chilled right, and the service was pathetic.” Uh Mack apologized if your experience was not up to our usual standards, Mr. Pierce. The words were a standard hospitality script, but Mack’s tone remained remarkably devoid of subservience. It was a factual statement devoid of the groveling Braden craved.
“Apologize?” Braden stood up. He was 6’1”, nearly 200 lb of dense, fast-twitch muscle. He stepped into Mack’s personal space, towering over the slightly shorter, leaner waiter. “You think an apology cuts it, old man?” Braden sneered, pointing a thick finger into Mack’s chest.
“I’m Braden Pierce. I’m a world champion. People pay thousands of dollars just to breathe the same air as me, and you bring me chewy meat and give me this dead-eyed attitude all night.” Mack didn’t move. He didn’t flinch when the finger hit his chest. He simply looked at Braden. Internally, a switch that had lain dormant for 12 months began to flicker.
In a fraction of a second, Mack’s mind calculated the optimal strike zones, the carotid sinus on the left side of Braden’s neck, the floating ribs, the patellar tendon on his lead leg. “I will gladly get the manager to discuss adjusting the bill.” Mack said, his voice dropping half an octave, carrying a subtle, terrifying resonance.