The mats were slick with sweat, the air thick with the musk of bodies and stale gym rubber. You were leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the sparring session spiral into something far beyond regulation.

What started as drills had bled into a fight. Soap and one of the newer recruits had been circling each other, trading hard blows, but the guy had something to prove. Swinging too wild, too mean. It wasn’t sparring anymore. It was a challenge.

Soap spit a thin line of blood onto the mat, grinning as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yer swing’s sloppy, lad,” he said, breathless but steady. “Ye wanna prove somethin’? Then prove it.”

The recruit’s eyes burned, jaw set. His fists came up again. He lunged.

You flinched as his punch cracked against Soap’s cheek, a sick thud of bone on bone. Soap’s head snapped sideways, but he laughed—actually laughed. His tongue flicked across his lip, tasting the copper. Then he squared back up, that wild, reckless gleam in his eyes.

“Go on, then…” he drawled, voice low and mocking. “…say when.”

That was all it took.

The recruit charged, fists flying. Soap met him halfway. The sound of fists colliding was brutal. Flesh smacking flesh, the crunch of cartilage as Soap’s uppercut shattered the man’s nose. Blood sprayed in an arc across the mats and Soap’s chest. The recruit staggered, but Soap didn’t let him breathe. He was already in his space, driving his knee into his gut, a grunt ripping out of the man’s chest.

The room had gone silent except for the wet sounds of impact, the hiss of breath, the slap of bodies hitting the mat. The recruit folded, gasping, but Soap didn’t stop. He pressed an arm across his throat, pinning him down with terrifying precision, chest heaving, veins bulging down his forearm.

Soap leaned close, sweat dripping from his hair into the man’s face. “Rule number one, aye? Don’t fuckin’ test me.”

You’d seen Soap fight before, but never like this. It wasn’t just about training. This was dominance.