The next morning, Trevor stood at the edge of a rusted freight elevator hidden behind a boarded-up warehouse on the city's forgotten side. The black key Blair had given him fit perfectly into a slot behind a false panel. With a low mechanical groan, the elevator descended—slow, deliberate, like it was measuring his resolve with every floor it passed.
When the doors finally opened, Trevor stepped into a world that didn't feel like it belonged underground.
The Black Skulls base was a sprawling, high-tech labyrinth carved into the bedrock. Fluorescent strips lit the corridors in pulses of white and blue. The air smelled faintly of ozone and steel. Screens lined the walls, displaying maps, surveillance feeds, and encrypted data streams. It was part bunker, part war room, part ghost town.
Blair was waiting for him at the entrance, dressed in a sleek black training uniform. No coat. No smile. Just a nod.
"You showed up," he said.
Trevor stepped forward, eyes scanning the space. "This is real."
Blair gestured for him to follow. "Very."
They passed through a biometric checkpoint, then into a wide chamber that looked like a cross between a dojo and a weapons lab. Sparring mats. Weighted dummies. Racks of gear—some standard, some clearly custom-built for people who didn't play by civilian rules.
"This is where we strip away what the world told you you were," Blair said. "And build what you choose to become."
Trevor turned slowly, taking it all in. "And what if I don't know what that is yet?"
Blair met his gaze. "Then we start with what you're not. You're not weak. You're not broken. And you're not alone."
He tossed Trevor a black duffel bag. Inside: training clothes, gloves, and a sleek headset with the Black Skulls insignia etched in silver.
"Suit up," Blair said. "Lesson one starts now." Blair walked away leaving Trevor alone with his thoughts.
Trevor stepped out from the changing room of the Black Skulls compound, the sleek black training uniform clinging to him like a second skin. The skull emblem rested over his chest—silver-stitched and foreign, like it belonged to someone else. The hallway beyond buzzed faintly with electricity and the low thrum of generators somewhere deep in the bedrock. But when the door opened, silence met him.
Blair was already waiting.
No coat today. No relaxed posture. Just a silent figure standing before a massive black wall. It stretched across the entire width of the chamber, nearly three meters high, its surface matte and faintly textured—rippled with dents, scratches, and smudged traces of dried blood.
Trevor stepped closer, hesitant. "What is that?"
Blair didn't turn. "The Bastion. Every operative meets it. Some make peace with it. Some break on it. You're going to punch it."
Trevor frowned. "Until?"
"Until your hands bleed."
He blinked, genuinely unsure whether he'd heard right. "You're serious."
"I'm methodical," Blair replied. "Every inch of this wall is reinforced composite—it doesn't yield. Neither should you. There are people out there—men and women in the other syndicates—who can break a jaw with one strike, dislocate limbs with instinct. They were forged in pain. We'll do the same. Properly."
Trevor glanced at the wall again, suddenly aware of the way his fists trembled. "What if I don't want to be like them?"
Blair finally turned, his voice quieter, but sharper. "You don't have the luxury of staying soft, Trevor. Not when you've already been marked. They didn't just humiliate you—they tried to erase you. If you want to survive, you fight. If you want to change the game, you hit harder than anyone else ever dared."
For a long moment, Trevor didn't move.
Then—without another word—he stepped toward the Bastion and lifted his hand.
The first strike felt like punching stone. Pain shot up his forearm in a flash. The second was worse—not just because of the force, but because his mind now braced for impact, tightening every muscle too soon.
The third broke the skin.
He grunted, heat flashing under the surface of his cheeks. His fists weren't weapons. They were shaking reminders of how much he still carried—the betrayal, the mocking voices, Lena's final smirk, Mark's look of disgust.
He struck again.
And again.
His knuckles split. Blood smeared across the matte wall in streaks, stark against the black surface. Every punch sent needles of white-hot agony up through the bones of his hand, through his wrist, into his elbow. His arms screamed. His chest heaved. But he didn't stop.
It wasn't rage.
It was resolve.
When he finally staggered back, blood dripping from his fingertips, his breaths short and uneven, Blair approached without a word. He handed him a clean cloth. A flask of sterile rinse. A small metal case filled with medical gauze.
Blair didn't move.
He stood a few feet from where Trevor had collapsed onto his knees, fists bloodied, chest heaving like an engine coughing smoke. The sterile gauze had fallen to the floor, untouched. His knuckles trembled with a raw ache—skin torn, bone bruised, nerves screaming in protest. The Bastion wall stood silent and unbothered, streaked with his effort like it hadn't even noticed.
Trevor looked up, sweat and blood glistening on his brow.
Blair's voice was calm. Too calm. "Again."
Trevor blinked, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "What?"
"I said—get up. Again."
His words weren't cruel. They didn't rise above a murmur. But they dropped into the room like iron. No sympathy. No applause. Just the demand of someone who expected something more.
Trevor spat blood from a cracked lip and pushed himself upright, pain ricocheting through every inch of his arms. "You want me to do this until I can't feel my hands?"
"No," Blair said coolly. "I want you to do it until the pain doesn't matter."
Trevor let out a hollow laugh. Not amused. Just exhausted. "Is this what training is to you? Torture disguised as discipline?"
Blair stepped closer. "Pain is honest, Trevor. It doesn't lie. People do. Friends. Family. Enemies. But pain? Pain tells you exactly where your limit is… and then dares you to move past it."
For a moment, Trevor stood there swaying. Blood dripped slowly to the floor. The sting in his palms had turned to a deep, bruising throb. But underneath it, that strange clarity returned—cold and clean.
He staggered to the wall.
Stared at his own smudged prints on the black surface.
And then—he raised his fists again.
The next punch wasn't stronger. It wasn't cleaner. But it was deliberate.
So was the one after that.
And the one after that.
With each strike, the pain dulled into rhythm. With each gasp, a little more hesitation bled out. Until there was only the wall. The echo of flesh on impact. And the quiet presence of a man who no longer saw a wounded boy… but someone who might just survive this.
Maybe even become something more.
Blair stood still, arms crossed, watching Trevor hammer his fists against the Bastion wall long past the point most recruits would've given in. His eyes were calm, but not indifferent—more like a blacksmith studying a blade mid-forge, waiting for the steel to scream or sing.
Finally, after what felt like an hour, he spoke.
"That's enough."
Trevor staggered back, knuckles raw and trembling, blood streaked down his forearms. His breaths came out in shallow bursts, yet somehow steadier than before—like every inhale tasted less like fear and more like control.
Blair stepped forward and unrolled a wrap of sterile gauze from his belt. He knelt beside Trevor, wordless, and began binding his hands—not with gentleness, but with efficiency.
"I didn't expect you to go that far," he said quietly. "But you did."
Trevor didn't answer. His teeth were still clenched from the pain, but something in his posture had changed. He wasn't slouched. He was upright. Anchored.
Blair finished wrapping the last hand and looked him dead in the eye.
"You don't punch walls to feel strong, Trevor. You punch them to learn what won't break you."
Trevor looked down at his hands, now wrapped in crisp white. "So what now? I keep beating myself bloody until I stop feeling things?"
"No," Blair said. "You train until you can direct what you feel. Pain doesn't go away. It becomes a language. You'll learn to speak it. Read it in others."
He stood and walked toward the far door, then paused.
"Clean yourself up. Your next lesson starts in twenty."
Trevor's eyes lifted. "You mean there's more?"
Blair glanced over his shoulder, a faint smirk teasing one corner of his lips. "Oh, kid... this was just the warm-up."
He disappeared through the door, leaving Trevor alone with the Bastion wall, the echo of fists, and the ache of a boy beginning to become something unrecognizable.