By the time I left Azel and returned to the neighborhood, it was completely dark. I entered the apartment building, climbed the stairs, and slid the key into the lock. When I opened the door, silence greeted me; Mom wasn't back from work yet. This silence suited me perfectly—I needed to clear my head.
I headed straight for the bathroom. To wash away the sweat, the smell of the factory, and the exhaustion of the day, I turned the water to the coldest setting and stepped under the shower. As the icy water hit my body, the strange burning sensation in my muscles began to soothe. Azel's blood... That thing circulating inside me was changing me. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I noticed my shoulders seemed slightly broader, my gaze harder. But inside, I was still the same Rüzgar. Or so I thought.
I stepped out of the shower and put on some comfortable clothes. I had to return to my "normal" life. There was school tomorrow. I sat at my desk and opened my test book. Math... I used to struggle with it, but now I hoped my mind had strengthened just like my body.
I picked up my pencil and focused on a complex function.
One minute passed. Two minutes.
The numbers were blurring together. X's and Y's danced in my mind, but the solution just wouldn't come.
"Come on..." I muttered through gritted teeth. "I can lift all that weight, but I can't solve this damn problem?"
I pressed the pencil hard against the paper; the tip snapped. My nerves stretched like a bowstring. In that moment, that wild impulse, that intolerance, surged within me. I grabbed the book in a rage and hurled it across the room. As the book slammed against the wall and slid to the floor, I took a deep breath.
"Calm down," I told myself. "If you can't solve the equations on paper, solve the weakness in your body."
Just then, the sound of the front door opening echoed. Mom.
I quickly picked up the book from the floor, placed it on the desk, plastered a fake smile on my face, and stepped out into the hallway.
"Welcome home, Mom," I said. She looked exhausted as she set the bags on the floor. There were dark circles under her eyes.
"Thanks, son," she said, her voice hoarse. "Are you very hungry? Let me whip something up right away."
I wanted to say, "I'll handle it, you sit," but she had already disappeared into the kitchen.
We ate dinner in silence. As she talked about her day, I just nodded along. I couldn't tell her about Azel, the fights, or the blood. I had to carry this secret alone. This burden could not enter through the door of this house.
After dinner, I retreated to my room. "I'm going to study," I lied. But math was the last thing on my mind.
Tuesday. Fight night.
I was going to step into that ring, and I didn't know who I would be facing. Being strong wasn't enough; I had to be ready. Azel's words echoed in my mind: "Brute force gets you killed if you can't hit your target."
I cleared the small space in the middle of my room. It was time to grind.
I started with warm-ups. Jumping jacks, high knees, stretching my hamstrings. I could feel my body temperature rising, the blood pumping faster through my veins, waking up the dormant power Azel had gifted me.
"Let's test the limits," I whispered.
I dropped to the floor. Push-up position.
One, two, three...
I moved with a rhythmic speed. Ten, twenty, fifty.
Usually, my arms would be shaking by now. But tonight, I felt like a machine.
One hundred... One hundred fifty...
Sweat dripped from my nose onto the carpet, but my muscles didn't scream. They sang.
Two hundred.
I collapsed onto the floor, not from exhaustion, but from sheer amazement. Two hundred push-ups in one go. And I wasn't even winded.
I immediately flipped onto my back. Sit-ups.
One, two...
I crunched my abs, visualizing them turning into a shield of steel.
Fifty... One hundred... Two hundred.
I finished the set with a sharp exhale. My core felt solid, unbreakable.
But strength was only half the equation. I stood up and grabbed my phone. I had the power, but I didn't have the form. I typed into the search bar: "Basic fighting stance for beginners" and "Kickboxing footwork tutorial."
I watched the videos intently. A bald instructor on the screen was explaining the basics.
"Keep your chin down. Hands up, protecting the jaw. Knees slightly bent. Never cross your feet when you move."
I stood in front of my wardrobe mirror and mimicked him.
Left foot forward. Right foot back at a forty-five-degree angle. Knees bent.
I raised my hands. My left hand forward, guarding my face but ready to jab. My right hand tucked tight against my cheek, ready to launch a power shot.
It felt awkward at first. My body wanted to stand tall, but the video said that was a mistake. Being tall made you an easy target.
I adjusted my stance. Chin tucked. Eyes looking through my eyebrows.
I took a step forward. Step-drag.
I took a step back. Step-drag.
"Don't cross your feet," I muttered to myself, repeating the instructor's mantra.
I threw a slow jab at the reflection in the mirror. Then a cross.
Technique. It was all about efficiency. I didn't need to put 100% of my strength into every punch if I knew how to transfer my weight correctly.
For the next hour, I shadowed boxed in my tiny room. Moving, ducking, throwing combinations at imaginary opponents. My phone played video after video, and I absorbed every detail like a sponge.
I might not have solved the math problem tonight. But looking at my reflection—hands up, eyes focused, body ready to explode—I knew I was solving a much more important equation. The equation of survival.
"Tuesday," I whispered, throwing one last sharp jab at the air. "I'll be ready."
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