Chapter 3: Public Humiliation: Weight Room Redemption
The energy drink was a neon-green, sickly-sweet affront to good taste. Yura sipped it anyway, the sugar syncing with his lingering buzz as he and Anya cut across the quad. The clip from the library had done more than just rack up views; it had changed the air around them. Glances lingered longer. Whispers cut off as they passed. It was a current, and they were riding it.
“Skulls are predictable,” Yura said, finishing their earlier conversation as if no time had passed. He gestured with the can toward his legs, the red pantyhose now artfully torn at both knees from the rooftop concrete. “Maybe something… iridescent. Like an oil slick.”
Anya snorted, scrolling through her phone. “Chat would literally combust. We’d need a fire extinguisher for the comm—” She stopped walking. Her face tightened. “Oh.”
Yura followed her gaze. Leaning against the stone archway leading to the Athletic Center was Brock. Not alone. Four of his offensive line surrounded him like a wall of muscle and synthetic fabric. They were all in gym gear, towels around their necks, their faces set in various stages of bored aggression. The casual chatter of students flowing around them seemed to part, giving the group a wide, cautious berth.
Brock pushed off the wall. The arrogant smirk from the library was gone, replaced by something harder, uglier. The humiliation had cooked inside him, and now it was done. This was the result.
“Thought you might hide,” Brock called, his voice carrying too loud, meant for an audience. “Guess you’re dumber than you look.”
Anya’s hand tightened on her tablet, but she already had it recording, her thumb moving on instinct. The live stream icon glowed. “We’re not hiding, Brock. We’re walking. It’s a public campus.”
One of the linemen, a guy with a neck thicker than his head, laughed—a short, blunt sound. Brock ignored her, his eyes locked on Yura. “Library was a fluke. A cheap shot. You got lucky.”
Yura took a long, final sip of the neon drink. He crushed the can slowly, the aluminum crackling in the sudden quiet. “You said that last time, before you took a nap.” His voice was flat, unimpressed. “You want a storybook rematch? Is that it?”
“Weight room. Now.” Brock jerked his thumb toward the building behind him. “No sneak attacks. No bullshit. Just you and me.”
“And your four hype men?” Anya gestured with her chin at the silent wall of players.
“They’re just watching. Making sure your brother doesn’t run again.”
Yura dropped the crushed can into a nearby bin. The clang was definitive. He rolled his shoulders, a languid, almost careless motion. The red fabric of his tights stretched. “Lead the way.”
The campus gym’s weight room was a temple to brute force. The air was thick, humid with expelled breath and the sharp, acrid scent of stale sweat and cleaning chemicals. The soundtrack was the crash of dropped weights, the rhythmic grunt of effort, the constant clank of iron. Conversations were loud, competitive. It was a space that belonged to people like Brock.
All activity died when they entered.
Heads turned. Barbells were racked. The heavy bag in the corner swayed from a forgotten punch. Every eye tracked Yura’s barefoot progress across the cool, rubber-matted floor. His steps were silent. The torn red pantyhose were a violent splash of color in the monochrome sea of gray equipment and black lifting gear. Whispers surged, then hushed.
Brock strode to an open area near the squat racks, a clear space of polished concrete. He dropped his towel, started rolling his neck. His friends fanned out, forming a loose, human barricade. Anya positioned herself off to the side, tablet held steady. Her voice, when she spoke, was a low, clear commentary for the stream, cutting through the gym’s noise.
“Okay, chat. You wanted a rematch. You’re getting it. Location: the lion’s den. The mood is… hostile.”
Brock widened his stance, his fists clenching. “Rules. No kicks. No scratching. Just put up your hands and fight.”
Yura didn’t assume a stance. He just stood, weight perfectly balanced, arms loose at his sides. A faint, amused smile touched his lips. “Those are your rules. I didn’t agree to them.”
Brock’s face flushed. He charged.
It was a straightforward bull-rush, meant to tackle Yura through the wall. Powerful. Predictable.
Yura didn’t move away. He moved in.
As Brock dove, Yura dropped straight down, sliding onto his back on the hard floor. Brock’s momentum carried him over, just as Yura’s legs shot up, not to scissor, but to hook behind Brock’s shoulders and neck. He caught Brock’s head and one arm in a vise-like triangle, his thighs crossing, ankles locking. Then, with a terrifying core strength, he arched his back and rolled, using Brock’s own weight against him.
It wasn't the graceful, standing scissor of the library. This was grounded, intimate, and brutal. Yura ended up on top, his legs still tightly locked around Brock’s neck and arm in an inverted triangle choke. Brock’s free arm flailed, slamming against Yura’s legs, hitting the concrete floor. It sounded like raw meat hitting a counter.
The gym was dead silent except for Brock’s strangled, wet grunts.
Yura squeezed. He didn’t strain. He just… compressed. The red fabric of his pantyhose strained over the defined muscle of his thighs. Brock’s face, pressed against Yura’s calf, turned from red to a deep, mottled purple. His eyes were wide, bulging with a shock that eclipsed pain. This was different. This was slower. More inescapable. He was being put to sleep in front of his whole world.
“He’s not tapping,” the lineman with the thick neck muttered, taking a half-step forward.
Anya’s voice was cool, matter-of-fact into the mic. “He can’t. His arm is trapped. Yura’s got the carotid. He’s got maybe ten seconds of conscious thought left.”
Brock’s slaps grew weaker. They became pats. A desperate, twitching finger tapped Yura’s leg, once, twice. A surrender.
Yura held it for a second longer—a merciless, pedagogical pause—then released. His legs uncoiled like pythons relaxing their grip.
Brock collapsed onto his side, a sack of bone and meat. He drew in a huge, ragged gasp that sounded like a sob, followed by a coughing fit that racked his whole body. He curled on the floor, wiping drool from his chin, his eyes unfocused.
Yura rose to his feet in one smooth motion. He looked down at Brock, his expression unreadable. Then he glanced around the silent weight room, meeting the stunned gaze of a linebacker, the wide eyes of a powerlifter frozen mid-clean. The air had shifted. The disbelief had curdled into something closer to fear, to respect.
He turned to leave, his bare feet making no sound.
A new voice cut through the quiet, older, authoritative. “What in God’s name is going on here?”
Coach Gibbons, a man built like a retired bull, stood at the entrance to the weight room, his whistle dangling on his chest. His eyes took in the scene: his star running back fetal on the floor, the slender, oddly-dressed boy standing over him, the cell phones pointed everywhere.
Brock’s friends all started talking at once, a jumbled mess of “sneak attack” and “cheap shot” and “he started it.”
Coach Gibbons held up a meaty hand. He looked at Yura. Really looked. At the tights. The bare feet. The preternatural calm. Then he looked at Anya, holding her tablet like a shield.
“You,” he said, pointing a thick finger at Yura. His voice was low, gravelly. “My office. Tomorrow. Ten AM.” He then pointed at the linemen. “Get him up. Get him out of here. This is a training facility, not a damn zoo.”
Anya fell into step beside Yura as they walked out, the crowd parting for them seamlessly this time. The heavy bag thumped again in the distance. The clanking of weights resumed, but softer, hesitant.
She didn’t speak until they were back in the cool evening air. The live stream had ended. Her hands were trembling slightly.
“That,” she breathed, “was an inverted triangle choke.”
“He left his arm in,” Yura said simply, as if commenting on the weather.
“Coach’s office. That’s… new.”
Yura looked up at the emerging stars, his profile sharp in the twilight. “He didn’t look mad. He looked curious.”
Anya replayed the final moments in her head—the coach’s gaze, analytical, stripping away the spectacle to the technique beneath. “The clip from in there is going to be everywhere. Not just campus. Everywhere.”
Yura nodded, starting the walk home. The adrenaline was settling now, leaving a deep, steady certainty in its wake. He flexed one foot, watching the red fabric stretch over his instep.
“Good,” he said. “Let them see what the hype men see.” A small, sharp smile finally broke through. “Let them see the last thing you see.”