Morning came with the scent of old sheets and dust.
For a while, I sat on the edge of my bed, gripping the edge of the mattress like it was the only thing anchoring me. My fingers trembled—not from fear, but adrenaline. I could still hear my heartbeat in my ears. Loud. Alive.
I'd died. I remembered the exact moment—the blade sliding into my stomach, the cold pavement against my cheek.
But I was here now.
Back in my old room, fifteen again.
The clock read 7:21 AM. Summer break. One month before school resumed.
One month before the cycle began again.
Downstairs, I heard Cale laughing.
I walked to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. The boy who stared back wasn't the ragged husk I'd last seen dying in an alley. His face was young. Soft even. No lines, no bloodshot eyes. But my gaze?
It didn't belong to a fifteen-year-old.
It was the gaze of a man who'd already buried a family and lost everything.
I washed my face, brushed my teeth. Watched my own movements like I was in someone else's body.
Then I opened my closet.
Tucked between old shirts and folded hoodies was a backpack. I pulled it out, dumped it, and began refilling it—notebooks, water bottle, an old hoodie, a towel, and the most important item: a roll of tightly packed bills.
Hidden savings. I remembered hiding it for emergencies. I'd stolen cash from birthdays, relatives, even vending machines back then.
Today, that "emergency" had come.
Cale was at the kitchen table munching cereal. He glanced up and grinned. "You look like a zombie."
I stared at him for a moment too long.
"What?" he said, blinking. "Is there cereal on my chin?"
I shook my head and sat across from him. "Nah. Just… it's good to see you, that's all."
"...Weirdo," he said with a smirk, but I saw the corners of his face twitch with warmth.
He didn't know.
He didn't know how close he'd come to becoming a memory.
He didn't know I'd watched him die.
After breakfast, I told my parents I was heading out early. They nodded, barely paying attention—my father buried in a repair manual, my mother folding laundry and humming a tune I hadn't heard in decades.
I stepped outside into the morning heat and walked. Past the park. Past the corner store. Past the school I'd come to loathe.
Until I reached the edge of the industrial sector.
A forgotten place where businesses came to die.
Redline Fist Gym.
That was the name.
The sign was rusted, half-faded. The front windows were smeared with dust. A crooked banner read "No Guts, No Glory."
I pushed the door open and stepped into stale sweat and faint blood.
The air was thick. The mats torn. The heavy bags held together by duct tape and prayer. Rust bit the edges of the weight racks. And in the center of it all—
A man stood beneath a flickering ceiling light.
Mid-50s. Shaved head. Muscular, but worn. Covered in old scars and fresh tattoos. His nose had been broken more times than a fighter should survive. He wore an oversized hoodie with the sleeves ripped off and was shadowboxing with slow, precise motions.
Damien Ryker.
Former MMA world champion.
Nickname: The Last Round.
The man who trained monsters—then became one.
He didn't look at me as I entered.
I cleared my throat. "Are you taking students?"
He stopped moving.
Turned.
Those eyes…
Cold. Gray. Unblinking.
Like a hawk dissecting a corpse.
"You lost, kid?" he said. His voice was gravel soaked in bourbon.
"No."
"Then leave."
"I want to train."
"No, you don't."
"I do."
He walked toward me. I didn't move.
He stopped an inch from my face, breathing slowly, looking me over like I was something he'd scraped off his boot.
"I don't do after-school cardio," he muttered. "This ain't a cheer-up club. You break a finger here, I don't baby it. You pass out, I don't call your mommy. You bleed, you mop it up."
"I understand."
He squinted. "You think you do."
"I know I do."
"You ever been in a fight?"
"Yes."
"You win?"
"No."
"Good," he said. "Means you won't be cocky."
He walked past me, grabbed a clipboard, and threw it on the floor.
"Sign it. It's a waiver. And a contract. And your last warning."
I signed.
And that's when it began.
The first day was pain.
He didn't say "hello." Didn't explain anything. Just pointed.
"Ten sets of pull-ups. Then push-ups until failure. Then squat holds until you cry."
That was just the warm-up.
Then came pad work—except the pads were barely padded. My knuckles burned. My arms felt like bricks by noon.
I threw up three times.
He never once asked if I was okay.
He only ever said, "Do it again."
When I returned the next day, he blinked once. "Didn't think you'd come back."
"I will," I said.
"Why?"
I looked him in the eye. "Because if I don't get stronger… I'll die again."
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then nodded. "Alright. No more talk."
Days passed.
Then weeks.
I stopped feeling my hands during training.
My legs felt like concrete every night.
I started bruising differently—deeper. But my endurance climbed. My punches stopped slapping and started sounding like thunderclaps. My balance sharpened. My breathing synced with pain like it was natural.
Ryker still didn't compliment me.
He just increased the workload.
One night, as I sat on the gym floor in a pool of sweat, he finally said something that stayed with me.
"You've got it."
"Got what?"
"The same thing I had before my brother died."
I looked at him.
He wasn't smiling.
"You're not trying to win," he said. "You're trying to erase."
By the end of the first month, I could lift double what I used to. I could run five miles without gasping. My body had begun to change. Broader shoulders. Leaner waist. Denser muscle. Fire behind my eyes.
But that wasn't the real change.
The real change was the silence in my mind.
The constant chaos had dulled.
The pain, the trauma, the hate—it was still there.
But now I had something to pour it into.
Every punch was a scream.
Every drop of sweat was a tear I didn't shed.
Every breath was another promise to myself.
They don't know I'm back.
They don't know I'm coming.
But I am.
And I won't stop until every last one of them—
Burns.