The next morning, the alarm went off at 5:00 AM.Blaze didn't need it.He'd barely slept anyway.
Nerves crawled in his stomach like cold insects, but he ignored them. He tied his ruined sneakers again, threw on his oldest hoodie, and walked the cracked streets to the gym like a soldier heading to war.
When he pushed the gym door open, it was like stepping into a furnace.
Even at six in the morning, the gym was alive with sound—thud thud thud of gloves hitting bags, sneakers squeaking on worn mats, jump ropes slapping the floor like angry snakes.
And standing in the center like a general?
Mason Quinn.
"Look who showed up," Mason grunted, not smiling this time. "Might be dumber than you look."
"I'm here to work," Blaze said, throat dry.
Mason stepped closer, his boots heavy on the floor. "Everyone's here to work the first day. Let's see how you feel tomorrow."
Without another word, Mason threw a jump rope at Blaze's chest."Start skipping."
Easy, Blaze thought. I can handle jump rope.
He lasted thirty seconds before he tripped. The rope tangled his feet, snapping against his shins like a whip.
"Again," Mason said, already turning away.
Thirty more seconds. Trip. Snap. Breathe.
By minute five, his calves were burning. His wrists ached. Sweat was already dripping into his eyes.
But Blaze didn't stop.
An hour later, Blaze was doubled over, palms on his knees, gulping air like a man drowning above water. His shirt stuck to his back. His legs felt like wet concrete.
Then Mason threw hand wraps at his feet.
"Let's see you hit something."
Blaze tried to wrap his hands the way he'd seen in YouTube videos—messy, loose, awkward. Mason walked over, shook his head, and unwrapped him like an annoyed parent fixing a child's homework.
"Gonna break your wrists if you don't do it right. I don't train corpses."
Once wrapped properly, Mason pointed to the old heavy bag in the corner. "Ten minutes. Jab only. Go."
Blaze raised his fists and threw a jab.
Weak.
"Again," Mason barked.
Again.Again.Again.
By the end of it, Blaze's knuckles were screaming through the padding, and his shoulders burned like someone had set fire inside them.
Finally, Mason waved him off. "Enough for today."
Blaze nodded, wiping sweat off his face with his sleeve. He wanted to collapse, but something inside him—that spark—kept him standing.
Mason studied him for a moment.
"Most quit by now," the old fighter said. "What's your problem?"
Blaze looked at him, eyes bloodshot but steady. "I've been quitting my whole life. I'm sick of it."
For a split second, Mason's eyes softened. Just a flicker. Gone before it fully appeared.
"You're slow," Mason said, stepping away. "You're weak. You're green. But you're not soft. That's something."
He walked toward the office. Over his shoulder, he added:
"Tomorrow. Same time. Bring your lungs with you next time."
Blaze stood alone, drenched, exhausted, sore.
But for the first time in years…He wasn't empty.