Wade summoned him to the gym on Tuesday. Byron arrived in a clean shirt and the same work pants he used on ordinary days. He had not been told why the meeting was necessary, although he understood. Wade sat behind his desk with a termination letter and a human resources consultant attending by speakerphone. The letter alleged misconduct during a sponsored event, a serious violation of gym policy, and damage to the company's reputation.
"Effective immediately," Wade said. "Your employment is terminated."
Byron read the page slowly. There was no mention of the instruction to leave his post, no reference to Colt grabbing him, and no acknowledgment that Wade had been present when everything happened. He asked whether the gym had preserved the complete security recordings. Wade told him the system had experienced a technical issue and that the material available had already been provided to counsel. Then he slid a second paper across the desk asking Byron to acknowledge the findings.
"I can acknowledge receiving the letter," Byron said. "I can't agree with what it says."
Wade's mouth tightened. He told him the distinction would not change the decision. Byron asked for his jacket and the photograph he had placed back in his locker after making a copy. Wade said personal property would be mailed to his address. The older man did not argue because he had no authority to make Wade keep a promise in that room. He signed only the receipt acknowledgment and left the disputed statements untouched.
Two trainers stood near the lobby as Byron walked past. Both had been within sight of the ring when Colt threw the first punch, and neither met Byron's eyes. Celia came out from behind the desk carrying a small envelope. She had copied the original incident report from the night Colt kicked the chair, along with the shift schedule showing Byron's hours had been reduced. "I don't know if this helps," she whispered. Byron thanked her and slipped it into his coat pocket.
He left by the loading dock, which felt like an ending deliberately designed to make him small. The bus was not due for another forty minutes. He waited beneath a streetlight with his hands in his pockets while traffic moved along Whitfield Avenue. Across the road, a young man stared at him, looked at his phone, and stared again. Byron turned his collar up against the wind. For the first time, the city that had been his home for decades felt as though it might recognize him without knowing him at all.