The morning sun pressed down on Jefferson High's cracked blacktop, baking the air until it shimmered. The smell of sweat, cheap deodorant, and sneakers clung to the gym field as students stretched half-heartedly.
Coach Elijah Green stood in front of them, whistle between his lips, loose tracksuit hanging off his broad frame. His grin was lazy but confident—just enough to keep even the slackers moving.
"Alright, y'all. Ten jumping jacks like you mean it, not like you're allergic to effort."
A few groaned; one boy fake-coughed; a group of girls laughed behind him. Elijah just smiled. He had taught long enough to know when to push and when to let them breathe.
He scanned the field, hands behind his back, until movement at the far end caught his eye. A basketball flew off-target and smacked a small freshman, Marcus, square on the side of the head. The ball bounced away; laughter followed.
Elijah sighed. Here we go again.
Trevon, tall and smug, spun another ball on his finger.
"What? It's PE, bro! Don't cry over a pass!"
Marcus rubbed his head, eyes glassy. Elijah started to step forward—then stopped. A familiar presence was already approaching.
The gym door creaked. Out walked Silas Cole, mop over one shoulder, janitor uniform half-zipped, sleeves rolled up to reveal veined, scarred forearms. His expression didn't change. His calm had a weight to it; the students went quiet without knowing why.
Silas stopped a few feet from Trevon. His voice came out low and steady, like a command.
"You play basketball?"
Trevon hesitated. "Uh… yeah?"
Silas nodded, caught the spare ball from Trevon's hand with one smooth motion, bounced it once—CRACK—a thin fissure snaked across the old court. The students gasped. He spun the ball on one finger, perfectly balanced, before tossing it back.
"Then you know what happens when your aim's off."
Trevon blinked. "What?"
Silas's eyes locked onto his. Calm. Deadly.
"You run laps until you remember control. Fifty. Start moving."
Trevon laughed nervously, but when Silas tilted his head, something primal in the bully's brain kicked in. He started jogging, then running, muttering curses under his breath.
The rest of the class stared, caught between awe and confusion. Elijah finally clapped once, breaking the tension.
"Y'all heard the man! Fifty laps! Respect the floor, respect yourselves—and definitely respect the janitor before he drafts you into cardio."
That drew laughter—nervous but genuine. The class loosened up, some students whispering about Silas's strength, others pretending not to stare at the cracked concrete.
Elijah strolled over once the students were distracted.
"You ever think about just asking people to behave?"
Silas smirked. "Didn't work last time."
"Man, this ain't the old days," Elijah said, shaking his head. "We're supposed to rehabilitate, not re-educate with fear."Silas gave a low chuckle. "Worked faster."
By the time class ended, the sun had slid low behind the bleachers. Students trickled out, voices echoing faintly in the gym. Silas stayed behind, mop squeaking softly across the wooden floor.
He didn't notice Marcus until the boy spoke.
"Um… you missed a spot."
Silas turned, brow raised. Marcus stood there holding a broom awkwardly.
"You don't have to do that," Silas said."I want to," Marcus replied. "You helped me earlier."
Silas looked at him for a moment, then nodded toward the other side of the court.
"Start there."
For a few minutes, they worked in silence—one mopping, the other sweeping. The rhythmic sounds filled the space, strangely peaceful.
Marcus finally broke the quiet.
"Coach Green said you used to be… in the military or something?"
Silas didn't look up. "Something like that."
"Was it hard?" the boy asked, curious but careful.
Silas paused mid-swipe. His reflection in the mop water looked older than he felt.
"Hard's the wrong word," he said. "It was… loud. Always loud."
Marcus frowned, unsure what to say. Silas straightened, wrung out the mop, and added quietly,
"Quiet's better. Even when it's lonely."
The boy nodded slowly. Then, after a beat,
"You're not scary, you know."
That earned the faintest smile from Silas. "Don't let the others hear that. I got a reputation."
Marcus grinned. "Your secret's safe."
Footsteps echoed again—Elijah, carrying three cans of vending-machine coffee. He tossed one to Silas and one to Marcus.
"Appreciate the cleanup crew. Kid, you got guts stayin' behind. Most people run from him."
Marcus laughed nervously. "He's not that bad."Elijah raised a brow. "You sure we're talking about the same guy?"
Silas sipped the bitter drink, pretending not to listen.
"You two done gossiping? Floor's still dirty."
Elijah chuckled. "Still bossy as ever, huh? Just like old times."
For a moment, the air thickened—the weight of unspoken history between them. Then Elijah turned toward the doors.
"C'mon, Cole. Try not to terrify any more kids tomorrow."
Silas didn't answer. He looked at Marcus instead, who was still sweeping carefully, determination in every motion. Something about it tugged at him—memories of another boy he couldn't save long ago.
When Marcus finished, Silas handed him the mop handle like a sword.
"You got heart, kid. Come back tomorrow. I'll show you how to stand taller."
Marcus blinked. "Like… training?"
"Like discipline," Silas said, eyes narrowing. "And control."
The boy nodded eagerly and left the gym with a spark of confidence he hadn't had that morning.
Elijah watched from the doorway, shaking his head.
"You mentoring again? Thought you retired."Silas took another slow sip of coffee."Didn't plan to. Guess I'm still bad at quitting."
The two men stood there as the lights dimmed, the hum of the old gym filling the silence. Outside, the last streaks of daylight faded, leaving only their shadows across the polished floor—two killers pretending to be teachers, trying to rebuild something they'd both lost.