The warehouse gym on 9th looked like a place where people went to disappear.No signs. Flickering lights. Smelled like oil and regret.
By the time Blaze arrived, a loose crowd had gathered—fighters, gym rats, nobodies who wanted to see blood spilled without judges or gloves to ruin the fun. Concrete floor. One hanging bulb swinging overhead like a pendulum.
Dez was already warming up, shadowboxing with lazy, dangerous grace.
"Welcome to the show," Rico said, giving Blaze a mock bow. "Main event's about to start."
Blaze didn't say a word. He stripped off his hoodie, wearing just hand wraps and fight shorts. No headgear. No ref. Just knuckles and bad intentions.
Someone called, "Y'all ready?"
No bell. No ref. Just—
"GO!"
The First Round Was Hell.
Dez came at him like a pitbull unleashed.
Jab-jab-OVERHAND. Blaze ducked the first two, caught the third across the temple. His head rang like church bells on Sunday. He staggered backward, slipped, caught his balance.
"You're out of your league," Dez sneered, circling him like a shark.
Blaze tasted copper. Blood already.
Another shot—left hook to the liver. Blaze nearly folded. Nearly.
But something different was happening this time. Somewhere deep down, past the pain, past the panic, something was changing.
This wasn't the old Blaze—the kid who flinched at every hit life threw at him.
This was someone else. Someone becoming.
Second Round.
Blaze didn't back up this time. He stepped in.
Dez threw another wild right, arrogant, sloppy with overconfidence—and Blaze slipped under it.
For the first time, instinct took over.
"Breathe. Turn the hip. Drive the shoulder."
CRACK.
His right fist landed flush on Dez's ribs. Not enough to drop him—but enough to change the temperature of the room.
The crowd shifted. Whispers now. Something like hope.
Dez's smile cracked. "Oh… you got lucky."
No.Not lucky.Learning.
Third Round.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't pretty. Blaze was bleeding, limping, vision blurred in one eye. His body wanted to quit—but his mind refused.
Dez kept swinging harder, angrier, sloppier.
And Blaze? He moved. Rolled. Blocked. Countered.
It wasn't a beating anymore. It was a war.
One more shot—Blaze's right hook, turning his whole weight behind it—connected with Dez's jaw, snapping his head sideways.
Dez stumbled.
The room froze.
Blaze stood there, breathing like a furnace, gloves up, eyes burning.
Dez spat blood. Stared. And—for the first time—took a step back.
Blaze didn't chase him. Didn't need to.
Because in that moment, everybody watching knew:
This wasn't charity anymore. This wasn't lucky.
Blaze belonged here now.