The word is instinctive. It slips out humiliatingly raw, the shame hitting him right after. Good. Shame teaches faster than threats ever do.
“Don’t what?” I ask, almost gentle. “Press?”
A little more weight.
His heels dig into the floor, the soles of his shoes squealing against rubber. Every tendon in his neck jumps. He’s still trying to keep the bar off his ribs, but now he’s not pretending this is about pride or posturing. Now it’s just survival. The body gets so honest when you corner it properly.
“Or maybe,” I continue, as if we’re in the middle of a calm conversation instead of this, “you thought Octavia would be grateful somebody noticed her pain. Maybe you thought if you looked wounded enough yourself, she’d lower the knife.” My mouth pulls wider. “That must be the embarrassing part. She didn’t lower anything. She broke your face.”
His eyes flash.
That still gets him. Even now. Especially now.
“She-” he starts.
I drive the bar down another inch.
The sentence dies as a crushed sound in his throat. Not a scream. Not even close. Just that involuntary noise a body makes when it suddenly understands something has turned against it. His grip slips, then catches. One more inch and he’ll lose leverage. One more inch and every breath gets expensive.
Crouching beside the bench so we’re eye level, I peer at him.
“Finish that sentence,” I hiss.
He can’t. Not because he doesn’t want to. Because right now speech costs air and I’m rationing that for him.
My thumb taps once against the cold steel.
“You want to know what keeps me calm?” I ask. “How easy this could be.”
His pupils widen.
“I could let go for one second and blame your own ego for the rest.” I warn, glancing meaningfully at the loaded plates. “Nobody would even have to lie very hard.”
He believes me. That is the important thing. Not the threat itself. The fact that he can see I am not bluffing, and worse, that I’ve already thought through the practical details.
He tries to push again, his arms buckling visibly this time.
Letting the weight settle until it pins him enough that his next inhale comes thin and high, his breath is caught halfway in his chest. Panic flickers brighter. Sweat beads along his upper lip. He looks at the bar like it betrayed him.
“Listen,” I say quietly. “I want you to carry this feeling for a while.”
His eyes drag back to mine.
“This helpless part. This pressure. The understanding that all your strength means nothing if somebody stronger decides to make a lesson out of you.”
He swallows against a dry throat.
Taking one hand off the bar, I slap him across the face.
Not hard enough to break anything. Hard enough to turn his head and make the bruise Octavia left flare red again. Hard enough to remind him I’ve got room to improvise.
His head snaps back, his shock blooming more than the pain.
Hitting him again, open-handed, I got for the other side this time.
“You don’t get to wear that mark from her like a trophy,” I smile. “You don’t get to take her rage home and make it part of your little fantasy.” My voice stays low, which somehow makes it meaner. “You get to remember what it felt like when she hit you, and then you get to remember there was more where that came from.”
His breathing is ragged now. He’s stopped trying to posture completely. Good. Posture wastes time.
