The morning was colder than usual.
Rocky left his apartment without touching the leftover carrot from yesterday. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. Hunger was nothing compared to the storm swirling inside him.
The bruises on his face had darkened overnight. His jaw still ached from Jon's punch. His legs wobbled slightly as he pedaled to school, but he didn't care. Not today.
Today, something inside him felt… different.
As he entered the school building, the usual noise greeted him — footsteps, lockers slamming, meaningless laughter. But then a familiar voice cut through it all.
"Hey, dumbass! Are you okay? Or did I really just fuck you up yesterday?"
Jon's voice, full of mockery and cruelty, echoed through the hall.
Laughter erupted around them.
Rocky didn't respond. He kept walking, eyes low, trying to pass like always.
But Jon wasn't finished.
He stormed up behind Rocky, grabbed his neck with a sudden jerk, and slammed him against the wall. Rocky's back hit the cold metal with a heavy thud, then he collapsed to the floor, gasping.
Jon stood over him, smirking like a wolf playing with prey.
"Were your parents weak and shitty like you, huh?"
More laughter. Loud. Cruel.
But it stopped — abruptly.
Because for the first time in his life...
Rocky stood up.
Slowly. Silently. Eyes not full of fear — but rage.
The hallway went quiet. Even Jon blinked, confused.
Then — it happened.
Jon raised his leg for another flashy kick — but Rocky caught it.
In one smooth, shocking motion, Rocky gripped Jon's ankle in his right hand and locked Jon's left wrist with his other. Time seemed to freeze.
"W-What the hell?" Jon stuttered.
And then — BOOM.
Rocky's fist slammed into Jon's chest with explosive force. The sound was like thunder in the hallway.
Jon's body flew backward, crashed into the lockers, and collapsed to the floor.
He clutched his chest, eyes wide in shock, and started vomiting blood.
The hallway went silent. Everyone froze.
The strongest martial artist in school had just been obliterated by the "shitty boy."
Rocky stood there, chest heaving, fists trembling. His knuckles bled, but he didn't care. His eyes were cold, dark, burning with a fire that had been buried for far too long.
"Never," Rocky growled, his voice low and deadly,
"mention my parents again."
Gasps echoed around him.
Jack and the rest of the gang stared, mouths open. Tailer even took a step back. The entire school hall had turned into a courtroom, and Rocky — the nobody — had just flipped the verdict.
Jon lay groaning on the floor, blood dripping from his mouth, eyes full of terror.
Rocky turned and started walking away, every step echoing louder than any insult he'd ever received.
But just before he reached the stairway, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder.
"If any of you want to try next…" he said quietly, "I won't be as nice."
Then he walked off.
---
Later That Day – School Rooftop
Rocky sat alone, knees up, arms resting on them, wind blowing through his messy hair. The bruises still hurt. The hunger was still there. The world was still the same...
…but he wasn't.
"I didn't know I could do that," he whispered to himself.
His hands trembled not from fear — but from power.
He remembered the feeling of Jon's bones against his knuckles. The moment his fist connected. The way the crowd fell silent. It had felt… good.
Too good.
Like something inside him had been waiting for this. Like violence was a key that unlocked something deeper. Something darker.
Was this what strength felt like?
Not just muscle or skill — but that burning fire, that refusal to be weak anymore?
He looked up at the sky, eyes sharp.
"I don't want to be their toy anymore."
He didn't know what tomorrow would bring. He didn't know where this path led.
But he had made a choice.
And from now on…
Rocky was going to fight back.
No matter who stood in his way.
---
The sun was setting by the time Rocky left school.
Whispers followed him like shadows in the hallways — but no one dared touch him.
He walked home in silence, his body sore, his knuckles still bruised.
But his mind… was burning.
He couldn't stop replaying it — that moment his fist connected with Jon's chest, the shock on everyone's faces, the raw power he had felt.
It had been real.
It had been right.
And now, for the first time in his life…
He wanted more.
---
That night, Rocky stood in front of a small, dimly lit building a few blocks from his apartment.
A metal sign creaked above the entrance:
"Iron Fist Boxing Gym."
It looked old, forgotten — like a place where real fighters bled and grew.
He stepped inside.
The scent of sweat, leather, and blood hit him instantly. Punching bags swung. Gloves slapped against flesh. Grunts and shouts echoed from every corner.
No fancy equipment.
No music.
Just raw, brutal effort.
Exactly what he needed.
"Hey!" a deep voice called out.
Rocky turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late 30s. He wore a sleeveless hoodie, his muscular arms covered in scars and faded tattoos. His nose had clearly been broken more than once.
"You lookin' for someone, kid?"
Rocky swallowed, then nodded.
"I… I want to learn how to fight. Real fighting. Boxing."
The man studied him for a moment — the skinny frame, the bruises, the fire in his eyes.
"You ever trained before?"
Rocky shook his head.
The man smirked slightly. "Name's Marco. I run this place. We don't do fantasy here, kid. No YouTube moves. Just pain and power. You serious?"
Rocky clenched his fists.
"I'm done being weak."
Marco stared at him, then chuckled. "Alright. Show me what you got. Gloves on. Ring. Now."
---
Ten minutes later, Rocky stood in the ring with a borrowed pair of worn-out gloves. Marco stood across from him, his arms folded.
"See that bag in the corner? Hit it. Full force. No holding back."
Rocky nodded and stepped forward. The heavy bag loomed before him.
He pulled back…
THUD!
His punch landed. The bag rocked slightly. A few people nearby turned to look.
Marco raised an eyebrow. "Not bad for a beginner. Again."
THUD. THUD. THUD.
Again and again, Rocky punched, putting every ounce of rage, humiliation, and hunger into each strike. His shoulders burned. His hands screamed. But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
---
An hour passed. Then two.
Marco watched closely, arms crossed, silently impressed.
"Alright, stop," he finally said.
Rocky staggered back, drenched in sweat, barely able to lift his arms.
Marco walked over and looked him dead in the eyes.
"You've got something… that look in your eyes — I've seen it before. You're angry at the world, huh?"
Rocky didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Marco nodded slowly. "Good. But anger without control is just chaos. You wanna turn it into power? You train here. Every day. No excuses. You'll bleed. You'll break. But you'll become a fighter."
Rocky nodded, breathless.
From that night on, the gym became his sanctuary.
---
Later That Night – In the Mirror
Back at his apartment, Rocky stood shirtless in front of the mirror.
His body was still skinny. Bruised. Tired.
But for the first time…
He didn't hate the reflection.
Because now, there was something in his eyes he hadn't seen before:
Purpose.
He whispered to himself, voice low and certain.
"I'm gonna change everything."
The gym smelled of sweat and steel.
The kind of place where pain wasn't avoided — it was worshipped.
It had been two weeks since Rocky stepped through the doors of Iron Fist Boxing Gym, and nothing had been the same since.
Every morning, he woke up sore.
Every night, he went to bed broken.
But during the hours in between, he was alive.
"Fists up. Elbows in. Eyes forward," Marco barked, walking in circles around Rocky.
Rocky kept his stance tight. Gloves up by his cheeks. Chin down.
He bobbed. He weaved. He studied footage of legends.
But there was one fighter that lit a fire in his chest.
Mike Tyson.
The speed. The power. The relentless pressure.
The peek-a-boo style — hands always up, constant head movement, explosion in every punch.
Rocky couldn't stop watching him.
And now… he wanted to be that.
---
Day after day, he drilled the movement.
Slip left.
Slip right.
Roll under the jab.
Come up with a left hook.
Step in with the jab-jab-cross.
Marco watched him from a distance, arms folded. Other boxers laughed behind Rocky's back at first — the skinny kid trying to imitate one of the greatest of all time?
But Rocky never talked. Never looked back.
He just trained.
Every punch he threw wasn't just to learn — it was to destroy his past.
---
One evening, the gym lights buzzed overhead as Marco stepped beside the ring and said,
"Alright, Rocky. You've been learning the Tyson style, yeah? Think you're ready to test it?"
Rocky wiped sweat from his eyes. "Yeah."
Marco grinned. "Good. Gloves on. Time for your first spar."
Across the ring stood a short but heavily built guy named Leo — fast hands, 3 years of experience, and known for breaking noses.
Marco looked between them. "Leo, don't go easy."
Leo smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Rocky said nothing.
He slipped on his gloves. Tightened them. Breathed deep.
Focus. Rage. Control.
Ding!
The bell rang.
Leo charged in with a jab.
Rocky slipped left, just like in training.
A right hook flew — Rocky weaved under, gloves glued to his face.
Then he exploded forward — left hook to the ribs, right uppercut to the chin.
Leo grunted and stumbled back.
Marco's eyes widened slightly.
"Not bad, kid…"
But Leo recovered quickly and came back with a flurry of jabs. Rocky ducked and rolled, feet planted like iron, gloves shielding every inch of his head.
Peek-a-boo defense.
No wasted movement.
And then — BAM!
A short right cross slammed into Leo's jaw. His knees buckled.
The gym went silent for a moment.
Leo hit the mat — groaning, dizzy.
Ding!
The bell rang. End of the round.
Everyone watching had the same thought:
What the hell just happened?
---
Marco stepped into the ring, wiping his hands on a towel, grinning.
"Well damn…" he muttered, looking at Rocky like he was seeing him for the first time.
"You ain't just copying Tyson."
He threw a hand on Rocky's shoulder, chuckling.
"You're a damn wild dog in the ring, boy. Fast. Fierce. Biting like hell. We're gonna call you something…"
He thought for a moment, then smiled.
"Rexy."
Rocky blinked. "Rexy?"
"Yeah. Like a T-Rex. Short arms, but pure aggression. Pure pressure. The one who hunts."
Rocky couldn't help but smile — just a little.
From that day on, the name stuck.
No longer "Shitty Boy."
No longer invisible.
Now he was Rexy.
And in the ring… he was a threat.
---
Later that night — in the mirror
The bruises were still there.
The cuts still healing.
But Rocky stared at himself with new eyes.
His hands curled into fists.
No longer a victim.
No longer prey.
"Rexy…" he whispered to himself.
"…that's who I am now."