Roy sat on his couch, next to him a half empty bottle of beer, drool slipped from his mouth, his arm draped over the armrest, suddenly he awoke to an abrupt knocking at his door, "Who'd be knocking at this hour..?" the old man groaned, stretching his overworked back. Much to the old mans annoyance the knocking continued, no sign of stopping, "I'm coming, fucks sake!"
Roy made his way to the door, his hand still on his aged back, his eyes snapped open, in front of him was Mark, covered in sweat, his breathe heavy, steaming in the cold. "I've made my decision.."
Roy smirked "What changed?"
Marks grip tightened, raising his head, Roy saw it, something he hadn't seen in a newbie in many years, Grit, Pure determination. "I wanna fight.. I wanna fight Soren Blackwood!"
Roy stood there for a moment, blinking. "Blackwood?" He almost failed to stifle a laugh. "What a twist! Haha—I'll tell you what, kid..."
Mark leaned in, eyes sharp. "What...?"
Roy smirked. "You're in!"
Mark's eyes practically gleamed. "Haha—yes! Old man, I could kiss you right now!" He grabbed Roy in a tight hug, lifting him slightly off the ground, a sharp crack sounding from the old man's back.
"Woah, kid! I'm a tad bit old for you!" Roy chuckled, prying himself free. "But thanks for the chiro session!"
Roy threw at towel at Mark "Freshen up, boy, we gotta be up bright and early tomorrow!"
Mark nodded, a smile clear on his face "Yes sir!"
The next day,
A cigarette burned between two fingers outside a beat-up gym. Smoke curled upward, fading into the morning chill. A familiar voice broke the silence.
"So, Mr. Raizen."
It was Soren Blackwood, hands wrapped, hoodie on, expression unreadable.
From the side, a gruff man emerged—long, dark hair streaked with gray. "What is it, punk?"
Soren flicked the cigarette away and pushed open the gym door. "What's on the schedule today?"
The gym's atmosphere shifted the second he stepped in. Tension. Respect. Fear.
"I think you know," Raizen said, following him inside.
A man in a windbreaker jogged over, clipboard in hand. "Ah! Mr. Blackwood, Mr. Raizen—glad you finally made it!" he said with a laugh.
"Yeah, blame the champ here," Raizen grunted. "Had to stop every block so he could feed his nicotine addiction."
"Haha—my fault, my fault!" Soren waved the accusation off. "Anyway... where is he?"
"Right here," came a new voice.
Soren lit up. "There he is!" he beamed. "Rico!"
The national champion braced himself as Soren lunged forward. A fist came flying—Rico ducked instinctively, the punch slicing the air above him.
Rico fired an uppercut but stopped just short.
"You've really gotten better, huh?" Soren said, proud.
"You think so?" Rico replied, landing a soft jab to Soren's chest.
Ryan's voice cut through their play-fighting. "Either stop or get a room—you two lovebirds have a tape to watch."
"A tape?" Rico asked. "We're not sparring?"
"We will," Soren said, his tone suddenly cold. Serious. Rico's smile faded at the shift."But this comes first."
"Right..." Rico nodded.
They followed Ryan and Raizen to the staff room. Ryan sat at the desk, pulled up a file, and connected it to the flat screen.
"This," he said, nodding toward the screen, "is what you're up against."
Raizen folded his arms, face stern. "His name is Aiden Kross. Watch closely."
The bell rang.
The crowd roared, hungry for a comeback—but the moment the third round started, it was clear: the momentum was gone. Kross didn't charge. He stalked. Calm. Measured. Hands up, chin tucked, eyes locked in like a predator.
The ranked fighter threw a desperate jab. Kross slipped it with ghostlike ease, answering with a short hook to the ribs. The sound was sickening—meat meeting malice. The ranked fighter stumbled back, breath catching in his throat. That was the beginning of the end.
Kross didn't let up. He closed the distance with assassin-like precision, hammering body shots that folded the other man's guard inward like paper. Left to the body. Right uppercut. Left hook. A short elbow in the clinch the ref didn't see.
Blood dripped from the nose of the ranked fighter. His eyes glassed over, legs trembling like wet branches. The crowd could feel it—this wasn't just a win, this was domination.
Then it came. The finishing sequence.
Kross feinted low. The ranked fighter bit, dipping his guard. Too slow. Kross exploded upward with a right cross that detonated on his jaw, snapping his head back with brutal force.
A moment of silence.
Then he crumpled.
"Both me and Soren watched this fight live," Raizen said, eyes glued to the screen. "In fact… this is our recording."
The gym was silent, save for the sound of fists cracking across flesh from the playback. Blood. Precision. Power. Every frame of the fight told the same story: dominance.
"I don't think we need to tell you this, Rico..." Raizen continued, his voice heavy. "But this guy? He means business. And the business he means? It's your belt."
Rico scoffed weakly, though there was no real fire behind it. He leaned back on the bench, eyes avoiding the screen.
"So what? This won't be my first title defense... and it sure as hell won't be my last."
But even as he said it, his voice cracked—barely noticeable, but enough.
Ryan, arms folded, didn't sugarcoat it. "That's true. But... he outclasses you. By far."
Rico's heart sank. The words hit harder than any punch he'd taken in the ring. His gaze dropped to his wraps, still taped from the day's training.
"They don't believe in me. Fifteen fights. Zero losses. And still... they see someone better."
"So you're saying..." he whispered, barely audible. "I'm done?"
No one answered at first. The silence was suffocating.
Soren rose from his chair on the side, a smirk stretching across his face. He walked forward, eyes locked on Rico like a lion sizing up a limping deer.
"Done?" he laughed. "Oh no, champ. You still gotta take my world title off me."
He leaned in close, voice slick with arrogance.
"You could win. Sure. but you'd have to do everything in your power just so you could just barely make it out of the first round, alive."
Soren straightened up, walking toward the gym door, tossing a towel over his shoulder.
"But lucky for you, I like a challenge. I'll make sure you don't fall apart too quickly."
He paused, one hand on the door frame, glancing back with a grin that cut deep.
"I want the crowd to remember how hard you fall."
Then he was gone.
Rico didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared at the flickering screen—watching the monster that was coming for him.
Elsewhere.
Roy sat on a pedal bike, headphones in, casually pedaling along the dusty roadside. He turned his head just in time to see Mark stumbling, nearly gassed out. The old man groaned. "Really, kid?"
"What? Get your ass off that pushbike and run with me if you're such a hotshot!" Mark barked, still struggling to catch his breath mid-run.
"I'm not the one who wants to fight Soren Blackwood, am I?" Roy scoffed, slowing to a stop and resting his helmet on the handlebars. "And here I thought you were some kind of magical prodigy…"
Mark's jaw clenched. "Magical prodigy? Suck it! Everything I've got, I earned!"
Roy raised an eyebrow. "What? We've got—at minimum—five kilometers left. And you're telling me you've earned a break after a single klick?"
Mark's eyes flared. "Who do you think you're talking to!? Five kilometers? No! I'll breeze through ten!"
Roy chuckled, knowing exactly how to push his buttons. "Prove it then, damned brat."He reached out and playfully smacked Mark with a branch before settling in for the long ride.
Back at the gym.
Soren sat in the corner of the ring, fists wrapped, headgear on, silent and focused like a coiled snake.
Rico stood frozen, his throat dry.
"Sure, I'm the strongest in the country…But that—" he glanced at Soren "that's the strongest in the world."
He turned toward his coach. "Coach…"
Ryan looked up. "What is it, kid?"
"Do you think I could just do pads instead today…?"
Before Ryan could answer, a gravelly voice cut in from behind. "No. I don't think you can."
Rico stiffened. Mr. Raizen. That voice could shake a mountain.
"Surely we could comp—"
"No," Raizen snapped, firm and final.
And then came Soren's voice— certain."Stop wasting our time."
He didn't even look at Rico as he spoke. That said enough.
Rico let out a long sigh of defeat and finally stepped into the ring. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. Just the thought of the beating he was about to take made his head throb.
The bell rang.
Rico Kane rolled his shoulders, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His stance was loose, slick. Trademark smooth. He tapped the canvas with his lead foot, hands relaxed but ready. He'd sparred dozens of rounds before—but something about Soren felt different today.
Across the ring, Soren didn't move.
No bounce. No showboating. Just a high guard and stillness, like he'd been carved from stone.
Rico made the first move. A probing jab, fast and sharp. Soren swayed just an inch—too fast to see, too subtle to read.
Rico pressed forward, a jab-feint to a right hook.
Nothing. Soren absorbed the hook on his shoulder and didn't flinch.
Then came the snap.
Soren stepped in with no warning—straight right to the ribs, followed by a slashing hook to Rico's temple. Rico stumbled back, arms scrambling to reset. Before he could even blink, Soren was in his face again. Left. Right. Body. Temple. Chin.
Each punch was clean. Each punch felt targeted.
Soren didn't look like a boxer. He looked like a killer.
The bell saved Rico.
Corner – Round 1 to 2
Rico sat down, head lowered. His chest rose and fell with shallow gasps.
Ryan knelt, wiping sweat off his face. "He's not just fighting you. He's dissecting you."
"I—I can't read him."
"Because he's not reading you. He's following a script. Aiden Kross' script. Calculated pressure. Surgical shots. He's not here to spar. He's here to study how you break."
Rico looked up, eyes wide.
Ryan grabbed his chin, locking eyes. "Use your rhythm. Break his pace. You can't go head-to-head with him. Not like this. Dance outside, make him chase you. Make him move."
Round Two – The Breakdown
Rico came out, trying to follow Ryan's advice. He circled left, light on his feet, snapping out jabs to create space. He tried to control the tempo, flicking punches, bouncing away.
But Soren adjusted.
With each jab Rico threw, Soren got closer.
Not with speed. With timing.
Soren stepped inside a jab, rolled under a hook, and planted a devastating left hook to the liver. Rico's legs shook. He staggered back, arms instinctively lowering to protect his side.
That's when Soren struck again—right uppercut through the guard.
"Shit—!" Rico grunted, slamming into the ropes.
Soren didn't follow up. He backed off mocking discipline. He knew Rico wasn't going anywhere.
Rico tried throwing a wild counter just to push him back.
Soren leaned out, barely moving, the punch grazing air.
"Desperation already?" Soren whispered.
The final ten seconds were torture. Soren didn't throw heavy shots—he tapped Rico's guard, shoulders, ribs. Like he was programming him.
Corner – Round 2 to 3
Ryan didn't sugarcoat it.
"You're bleeding rhythm. He's in your head."
Rico spat blood into the bucket. "What the hell do I do?"
"Hit something. I don't care if it's a shoulder, chest, elbow—just touch him. Break that perfect rhythm. You need to slow him down before he puts you to sleep."
Rico nodded, but the doubt was thick in his chest.
Ryan leaned closer. "And stop fighting to survive. Fight to make a point."
Round Three
Soren came out with the same cold stare, gloves loose, movement eerily quiet. He stalked Rico with the efficiency of a shadow.
Rico tried everything. Pivoted. Faked. Switched levels. But every action was met with a perfect answer.
A sharp jab to the chest froze him.
Then Soren exploded.
One-two. Hook. Hook. Uppercut. Liver shot. Step-out. Left straight.
The crowd of trainers and fighters that watched from the sidelines fell silent.
Rico's back hit the corner post. His body slumped, but his will kept him standing.
Soren looked down at him, then whispered, "This is what it's like to fight a ghost."
He threw one final shot—a short right hand to the jaw—not hard enough to drop him, just hard enough to say you're not on my level.
The bell rang. Rico dropped to his knees, arms resting on the ropes, chest heaving, face drenched in sweat and shame.
Post-Sparring
Ryan helped Rico back to the bench.
"No shame in losing," Ryan said. "Shame's in not learning."
Rico nodded, vision blurry. "He didn't just beat me…"
Ryan looked back at Soren—already joking with Raizen, gloves half-off, laughing like it was a game.
"He studied you," Ryan said. "The way Kross would. Now it's your turn."
With Mark.
He sat on a bench, his hair drenched in sweat, a bottle of water in his hands, "You ain't done bad kid. Though.."
"What is it? Spit it out already!"
"You didn't do your promised 10 kilometers, you muck."
"Fuck off, I'm lucky i lived through whatever I've just done.."
"True, You're lucky with your cardio.. and yet.. 15 kilometers, not bad, brat."
Mark froze mid-sip, lowering the bottle from his lips slowly. "Wait... 15?" Roy grinned, smug as ever. "You mean to tell me I ran fifteen goddamn kilometers!?"
Roy shrugged, stretching his arms behind his head like it was no big deal. "You wanted to prove a point, didn't you?"
Mark leaned forward, eyes wide. "No wonder I feel like my legs are gonna fall off…"
Then a smirk crept onto his face. "Fifteen kilometers, huh...? Hell yeah." He took another gulp of water, eyes now burning with fresh determination. "Let's make it twenty next time."
The morning sun was barely up, casting long shadows on the pavement. Mark's hoodie clung to his frame, damp with sweat from the earlier run. His breath came in ragged bursts as his shoes slapped against the cold asphalt.
Beside him, Roy coasted effortlessly on his beat-up push bike, hands tucked into his jacket pockets like he hadn't a care in the world.
"You know," Roy called out, smirking, "most people take a break after running fifteen klicks."
Mark groaned, dragging his feet a little. "Most people aren't trying to take down Soren Blackwood."
Roy let out a short laugh. "True. Most people aren't that stupid either."
Mark shot him a look but kept jogging. His legs ached, his lungs burned, but there was something deeper pushing him forward now. Pride. Hunger.
"How far's the gym?" he wheezed.
"'Bout three more blocks, give or take," Roy said casually.
"Three?!" Mark nearly stumbled. "Thought you said we were done running!"
"I said you were done. I didn't say anything about not jogging to the gym," Roy grinned.
Mark groaned louder this time, but didn't stop. He clenched his fists, picked up the pace just a little.
"Grit, kid," Roy muttered under his breath, watching the boy push forward. "That's what it takes."
The gym door creaked open, the scent of leather, sweat, and iron hitting Mark like a punch to the nose. The clatter of weights and the rhythmic thud of fists against pads filled the air. It was barely past sunrise, but the place was already alive.
Mark stumbled in, hands on his knees, gasping. "I need… like… five minutes."
Roy rolled his bike in behind him and leaned it against the wall, already peeling off his jacket."Nope."
Mark glanced up. "What do you mean nope?"
Roy pointed a thumb toward the heavy bag swinging in the corner. "Glove up, hit the bag."
Mark blinked. "Right now?"
Roy raised an eyebrow. "Did I stutter?"
Mark dragged himself over, grabbing his gloves from the side bench, muttering under his breath. "This is abuse…"
"You want to fight Blackwood or cry about sore legs?" Roy called out as he pulled a stopwatch from his coat pocket.
Mark didn't answer—he just squared up to the bag.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
His punches started slow, tired, uncoordinated. But something in him wouldn't let up. Each strike came sharper than the last. He found rhythm. Breath. Focus.
Roy watched from across the gym, arms folded. He nodded to himself.
"Good," he muttered. "Now let's see if you can still throw after your lungs give out."
From across the gym, a man leaned against the ropes, chewing a toothpick like it owed him money. He watched Mark lay into the heavy bag with an amused expression, arms crossed, posture lazy.
Roy barely looked up. "What're you staring at now, Jackson?"
The guy shrugged. "Didn't know we were lettin' in strays."
Mark paused, catching his breath. He turned, still dripping with sweat. "Who the hell are you?"
"Jackson Briggs. Pro." He tapped his chest proudly. "Got dropped in my debut by a jab. Real clean shot."
Mark blinked. "...That's what you're leading with?"
Jackson grinned. "Damn right. It was a hell of a jab."
Mark shook his head and turned back to the bag. "Congrats, I guess."
"You're welcome." Jackson walked over, hands in his pockets. "You new?"
"Nah, been training my whole life for this moment—bag work in front of a nobody with a toothpick."
"Oof. Feisty." Jackson laughed. "You don't hit bad though. You got the Roy treatment, huh?"
Mark narrowed his eyes. "What, the yelling and cheap insults?"
"Yup. Means he likes you."
Mark hit the bag with a thump, not missing a beat. "Too bad I don't care if he likes me. I'm not here to make friends."
Jackson leaned back on the ropes again. "Yeah, well. You've got the charm of a parking ticket, so you're doin' great."
Roy grinned from across the gym, listening in. The brat was fitting in just fine.
Roy leaned against the ring ropes, arms crossed, watching Mark hammer away at the heavy bag. After a moment, he cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Oi, Rocky! You done flirting with that bag?"
Mark glanced over, sweat dripping down his brow. "You tryna flirt with me, old man?"
Roy smirked and waved him over. "Get your ass in the ring. Let's see if you can hit something that hits back—grab your gloves, we're doing rounds on pads."
Mark muttered something under his breath, shaking out his arms as he headed over. "Bet your rotator cuff gives out before I do."
Roy rolled his eyes, slipping his mitts on. "Only thing giving out is your lungs, kid. Now show me what you've got."
Roy tapped the mitts together, crouched in his usual low stance as Mark stepped into the ring. "Alright, kid. Keep it sharp, keep it clean. Ready?"
Mark gave a quick nod, gloves up.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
The mitts cracked with each punch—jab, cross, hook—Roy guiding him with gruff commands and the occasional insult. Mark's footwork was solid, but he still had that raw edge, like a fire that hadn't quite learned how to burn steady.
From the other side of the gym, a voice called out: "Yo, old man! Don't let him gas out again—I saw him nearly pass out just jogging here!"
Roy didn't even turn. "If you're gonna heckle, at least put your mouth guard in first, Briggs!"
Jackson Briggs leaned on the ropes, grinning wide. He wore a leather jacket like he'd walked out of a bar fight and somehow won. "Just sayin'—he looks like he's throwin' punches underwater."
Mark slipped a cross through the mitts, exhaling sharp. "And you look like the guy who got dropped by a jab."
Jackson laughed, raising both hands. "Hey now! That jab came from a southpaw soon-to-be champion hopeful, thank you very much. Guy hits like a car crash!"
"Yeah? And you fall like wet laundry," Mark shot back, ducking under Roy's counter pad.
Roy snorted. "Briggs talks more than he trains, but maybe you two deserve each other."
Jackson tilted his head, still smiling. "Don't worry. I'm just here for the show... for now."
Mark fired a double jab-cross combo, sharper this time.
Roy raised an eyebrow. "Now that's more like it. Let's give our audience something to gawk at."
The round ended with Mark panting, his gloves heavy and his arms sore. Roy waved him off the pads, and Mark took a deep breath, trying to catch his wind. Jackson strolled over, shaking his head as he observed from the sidelines.
"Damn, kid, you got some speed in those punches, but you're telegraphing 'em like a damn billboard," Jackson said, leaning casually against the ring ropes.
Mark wiped his forehead with the back of his glove. "What are you talking about?"
Jackson clicked his tongue, the corner of his mouth curling into a grin. "You think you're sneaky, huh? Nah, I see that right hook coming from a mile away. You're loading up too much—everyone's gonna read it before it even lands."
Mark scoffed. "Right, like you could do better."
Jackson chuckled, stepping closer to the ring. "Alright, let me break it down for ya." He leaned on the ropes, then mimicked Mark's wind-up with his own exaggerated movements. "When you wind up like that, it's like you're sending a warning shot. Even a blind guy's gonna know it's coming."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "So, what? You got some magic trick up your sleeve?"
Jackson grinned, his posture cocky but a bit more focused than usual. "It's all about timing, man. You want that right hook? Don't load up. Throw it like it's just another jab. Quick. Clean. You're looking for a surprise, not a build-up."
Mark crossed his arms, still skeptical but intrigued. "So, you're saying I gotta make 'em not see it coming?"
"Exactly." Jackson's eyes narrowed as he threw a quick jab at the air, barely telegraphing it. "Smooth. If you make 'em guess, you've already won half the fight. Then hit 'em with what they don't expect—like a jab straight to the face from the right hand. Outta nowhere."
Mark smirked, finally catching on. "You make it sound easy. You sure you didn't get dropped by a jab or somethin'?"
Jackson's grin didn't falter. "Hey, everyone gets caught once in a while. But I'll show you how to make sure it's not by your punches."
Roy raised an eyebrow from the corner. "Are you two done flirting? Mark, get back in the ring. Jackson, you keep that advice to yourself, I don't need any more distractions in here."
Jackson tossed his hands up with a shrug, still smirking. "All right, all right. But remember, kid—timing's everything. You'll get it."
The pads session had ended, and Mark collapsed onto the nearest bench, his arms heavy and aching. He took off his gloves, tossing them to the side, and leaned forward, his face buried in his hands for a brief moment. His breath was shallow, each inhale a struggle, his body pleading for rest.
"Why did I even sign up for this?" Mark muttered to himself, his voice tinged with frustration and self-doubt. His legs were sore, his muscles burning, and a sinking feeling was starting to settle in his chest. Maybe he wasn't cut out for this.
"Don't be a drama queen, kid," came a voice from the side. Mark looked up to see Jackson leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed. "I saw you on the pads. You're doing fine."
Mark shook his head, exhaling slowly. "Fine? I feel like I'm barely keeping it together out there. Maybe this whole boxing thing isn't for me. Maybe I'm just not cut out for it."
Jackson gave a small laugh, walking over and sitting on the bench next to him. He cracked his knuckles, a smirk on his face. "Yeah, that's the part everyone forgets to tell you about. At first, you're gonna feel like you don't belong. Like you're always two steps behind. Happens to everyone. Trust me, I've been there."
Mark looked at him, faking his doubtfulness. "Really? The guy who got dropped by a jab?"
Jackson's expression softened slightly, a glint of something almost nostalgic in his eyes. "Especially me. Hell, when I first started out, I got my ass handed to me more times than I care to admit. You think it's all cool punches and flashy moves, but the work behind it? The grind? It breaks you down at first. But it's only through that struggle you start to build yourself up."
Mark was silent for a moment, processing Jackson's words. The idea that everyone had once felt the same doubts didn't seem to make him feel any better, but it was a reality check he didn't expect.
"But why keep going through all of that?" Mark asked, looking up at Jackson, genuinely searching for an answer. "I mean, if it's this hard... why even bother?"
Jackson grinned. "Because when you do get good—when you finally hit your stride—it feels like nothing else. But, man, it's not a quick road. You think I woke up one day a pro? Nah. I got my ass kicked, over and over again, until I learned how to land a hit. You can't shortcut that."
Mark stared at the floor for a moment, still unsure. But the way Jackson said it, with such conviction, it made something click in his mind.
"You'll get there," Jackson added, giving Mark a light pat on the back. "But you gotta keep showing up. Every time it gets tough, every time you wanna quit—you gotta push through."
Mark nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. The weight of the work ahead still felt heavy, but he wasn't about to back down now. "Guess I'll keep at it. For now."
Jackson stood up, stretching with a slight grin. "Good. Now get back to work, 'cause Roy's probably watching you sulk, and that never ends well."
Mark let out a reluctant chuckle, the brief conversation lighting a spark of determination. "Right. Guess I better get back to it."
Jackson's grin widened as he walked away, and Mark stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow. He wasn't sure if he was ready yet, but he knew one thing for sure—he wasn't going to quit.