It started with silence.
Not the kind found in empty rooms, but the silence inside my body. A rhythm. A breath.
Every movement felt aligned.
I no longer thought about walking or punching or breathing—I just did.
By the end of that week, I wasn't the same person who first stumbled into Ryker's gym, all bruises and rage. My body had become something else.
I could feel it in the mirror.
Not just the mass—though that had changed too. My shoulders were wider, muscles denser. My skin no longer bruised easily. My forearms veined under tension like steel cords. There was strength in my back I'd never known. I'd grown two inches taller, but it wasn't the height that mattered.
It was what stood behind my eyes.
Focus.
I could see better. Hear better.
I could predict better.
There was a moment, during sparring, when Ryker threw a spinning elbow at me—and I stepped through it like I'd already seen it happen in a dream.
He grinned, breathless.
"You're not reacting anymore," he said. "You're reading. That's how you know you're crossing over."
"Crossing into what?"
He didn't answer.
He just tossed me a towel and said, "Clean up. I'm taking you somewhere tonight."
The place had no name.
Ryker drove us across the city, past warehouses and rusted bridges, into a part of town where streetlights flickered and no one asked questions.
We stopped in front of a building that looked condemned—concrete shell, spray-painted walls, a bent metal door with no handle.
Ryker knocked once. Then again—three short raps.
The door opened.
A hallway stretched into the dark.
We walked in.
Inside was another world.
Concrete gave way to flickering red lights and a smell that could only be described as sweat, blood, and adrenaline.
A cage sat in the center—20 feet wide, surrounded by rows of chairs, tables, makeshift stands.
People smoked. Drank. Shouted bets. Laughed too hard.
The crowd wasn't high school bullies or drunk amateurs.
These were fighters.
Some wore scars like medals. Others looked like they'd walked out of prison cells. A few… didn't look human at all.
"This," Ryker said, "is where warriors test their teeth."
I scanned the room.
"How many know about ki?"
"A few," he said. "Most don't. But some? Some can feel it. And one or two can use it. The deeper you go, the stronger they get."
"This is your real training now."
I nodded.
"When do I fight?"
He grinned. "Thought you'd never ask."
My first opponent was a man named Harv.
Six-two. Heavy. Arms like tree trunks. A street fighter who'd broken four ribs in his last match and came back the next week smiling.
He didn't smile at me.
Just cracked his neck, stepped into the ring, and raised his fists.
The bell rang.
I didn't move.
Neither did he.
I let my breath settle.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then I stepped forward—and time bent.
He swung a hook that could've knocked out a horse.
I tilted my head two inches.
The punch grazed air.
I stepped in, palm-struck his solar plexus, spun, and elbowed him across the jaw.
He stumbled.
The crowd roared.
He rushed me.
Bad idea.
I caught him mid-sprint, dropped low, and swept his legs with a ki-boosted spin.
He hit the ground hard.
I followed with a body shot so clean I felt my fist echo through his ribs.
He didn't get up.
Silence.
Then cheers.
Ryker stood in the back, arms crossed.
He didn't smile.
But he nodded.
They gave me a bottle of water and a wad of cash I didn't ask for.
"Come back next week," someone said. "That was art."
I walked past bloodied men and shaking hands.
My heart rate hadn't even spiked.
Outside, Ryker leaned against the car.
"You felt it?"
I nodded. "Everything slowed."
"That's your ki listening. Your body reacting before your mind. Keep pushing."
I looked at him. "Why did you bring me here?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then: "Because Eastwood High is too small for what you're becoming."
"And what am I becoming?"
He looked at me like I was a question he couldn't answer yet.
Then said, simply, "A predator."
That night, I stood shirtless in my room, staring into the mirror again.
I wasn't the same.
The boy who'd died at fifty-nine—cold, bleeding, broken—was gone.
The fifteen-year-old who came back for revenge was evolving.
I rolled my shoulders. Flexed my fists.
I was faster.
Stronger.
Harder to kill.
But most of all…
I wasn't afraid anymore.