It was a terrifying familiarity. The quiet room inside his head—the room he had built to keep the monsters locked away—was cracking open.
"I'm going to ask you politely," Cole said. His voice was devoid of any emotion. It was entirely flat. "Step back. Go back to your mat."
"Or what?" Isaac challenged, crossing his heavily muscled arms over his chest. He was enjoying this, high on the confrontation. He saw a gray, tired man sitting on a bench. He saw an easy victory, a prop to elevate his own status. "You going to make me? You can't even lift that little rubber band without wincing, buddy. You can't fight. You're a civilian. You don't know the first thing about violence."
The word *civilian* echoed in Cole's mind. *You don't know the first thing about violence.*
Cole thought about the smell of burning copper and diesel fuel. He thought about the weight of a man's life leaving his body, the way a human being turns into dead weight in a fraction of a second. He thought about the nightmares that made him sleep on the floor of his closet for the first two years he was back stateside, clutching a heavy flashlight because he couldn't legally own a gun anymore without becoming a danger to himself.
He knew too much about violence. He hated it. He despised it with every fiber of his being. Violence wasn't art. It wasn't a chess match. It was a chaotic, ugly, desperate meat grinder that took everything from you and gave nothing back. And now this arrogant child in pajamas was trying to drag him back into the grinder.
"Last chance," Cole whispered. He didn't look at Isaac's eyes; he looked at Isaac's collarbone. "Walk away."
One of the students, an older guy with graying temples, stepped forward nervously. "Hey, Isaac, maybe we should just leave him alone. We can practice on each other."
"Shut up, Gary," Isaac snapped, not taking his eyes off Cole.
Isaac's ego was fully engaged now. If he backed down from a seated, middle-aged guy doing physical therapy, his credibility as an apex predator was shot. He had painted himself into a corner of his own design.
"I'm going to show you guys how easily a situation can be controlled," Isaac announced loudly. He uncrossed his arms and reached out.
It was a casual, dismissive gesture. Isaac aimed to grab the collar of Cole's black t-shirt, intending to haul him to his feet in a display of effortless physical dominance. It was a move designed to bully, not to fight.
Isaac's hand clamped down on the fabric at Cole's left shoulder.
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