Anthony did not wait.
He came forward the moment Nine shifted his weight, a sharp explosive step meant to seize momentum before it could be taken from him. His fist cut through the air toward Nine's throat, clean and efficient.
Nine moved just enough.
The punch passed where his neck had been. Nine did not counter. He did not retreat. He simply allowed the strike to fail and remained exactly where he wanted to be.
Anthony followed with a second punch. Then a third. A combination drilled into muscle memory years ago. Balanced. Correct. Deadly.
Nine let the third one land.
Not fully. Just enough to feel it. Knuckles brushing skin. Impact dulled by angle. A gift.
Anthony froze for half a breath.
Nine used that breath.
He caught Anthony's wrist, turned it slightly, and stepped inside the space Anthony thought he owned. A shoulder press displaced Anthony's center. A foot slid behind his heel. Not a throw. A suggestion of one.
Anthony stumbled back instead of falling.
"You are slow today," Nine said.
Anthony snarled and came again.
Harder this time. Faster. He drove forward with intent, chaining strikes together, elbows and knees flowing in practiced rhythm. Everything tight. Everything controlled.
Everything Nine had taught him.
Nine dismantled it piece by piece.
A block that was not a block but a redirection. A parry that opened Anthony's ribs without striking them. A tap to the inside of the knee that stole power without causing pain.
Nine let Anthony hit him again. A hook to the shoulder. A body shot that thudded solidly. Nine absorbed them without expression, eyes watching, learning nothing new.
Anthony felt it creeping in. That sensation he hated. That creeping certainty that the fight was already decided and he was just being allowed to participate.
"You are enjoying this," Anthony spat.
Nine did not answer.
He stepped forward and pressed two fingers into Anthony's sternum. Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Enough to stop him completely.
Anthony's breath caught despite himself.
Nine released him.
Again.
Anthony backed up a step, chest rising and falling faster now. Sweat slid down his temple. His jaw clenched.
Then he laughed.
"Oh," he said quietly. "I get it."
Nine waited.
"You are not fighting me," Anthony continued. "You are correcting me."
Nine tilted his head slightly.
Anthony's smile widened, sharp and feral. "Fine."
He dropped the stance.
Everything ugly rushed in.
Anthony lunged without warning, head first, aiming for Nine's face. Nine barely turned in time. Teeth snapped where his cheek had been. Fingers clawed for Nine's eyes. Nails scraped skin.
Anthony threw a kick from too close and followed it with a punch that should not have worked but nearly did. He laughed as he moved, breathless and reckless, momentum built on instinct instead of discipline.
Nine had to work now.
He took a glancing blow to the jaw. Felt blood warm at the corner of his mouth. His foot slipped once. Just once.
Anthony saw it.
"There you are," Anthony said, grinning.
For a brief moment the fight became real.
Nine adjusted.
He stopped absorbing. Stopped allowing. His movements sharpened, economy turning ruthless. He let Anthony think he was open and stepped aside at the last second. Let Anthony overcommit. Let gravity do the rest.
Anthony rushed.
Nine stepped in.
A knee strike folded Anthony's leg inward. A hand locked his shoulder. A twist of leverage collapsed his balance completely.
Anthony hit the floor hard.
The sound echoed.
He tried to rise. Failed. Tried again and laughed instead, coughing, one hand pressed to his ribs.
Nine stood over him, calm as ever, breathing even.
Anthony stared at the ceiling. "Are you satisfied."
Nine did not respond.
Anthony swallowed. His voice dropped, something raw slipping through. "Because this feels like being beaten by an abusive father or something."
Nine turned away.
He picked up his shirt and pulled it on with slow deliberate movements. No anger. No triumph.
"You did good," Nine said.
Anthony barked a laugh that turned into a groan.
"Son," Nine added.
Anthony shook his head, still smiling despite the pain.
Nine paused at the door. Looked back once.
"Clean up," he said. "When you are finished moping around on the floor."
There was a smile on his face.
It did not last.
The door closed behind him.
Anthony stayed where he was for a long time, staring upward, breathing through the ache, grin still carved into his face like a scar that refused to fade.