The rhythm of The Last Round became the rhythm of Kyon's blood. He was no longer a guest in the symphony of sweat and leather; he was one of its principal instruments. His new jump rope hissed like a satisfied serpent. His footwork on the canvas was a whispered secret. The heavy bags spoke to him in deep, percussive thuds that told stories of transferred force.
The money from helping trainees became a small, steady trickle. Thorne opened a bank account for him, a simple act that felt more monumental than any punch. Kyon Wilson, owner of assets. He bought protein powder to supplement Thorne's cooking, a proper cup for his mouthguard, and a second pair of hand wraps. Each purchase was a brick in the foundation of his new self.
One muggy afternoon in late August, as Kyon was meticulously mopping the ring canvas—a chore he'd come to see as a form of meditation—Thorne leaned on the ropes, watching him.
"Amateur registrations for the Fall Golden Gloves open next week," Thorne said, his voice casual, as if commenting on the weather.
Kyon stopped mopping. The Golden Gloves. He'd heard the name in the reverent tones the older fighters used. It was the proving ground, the tournament where legends first tasted glory. A path that started in church basements and union halls and, for the lucky and talented, ended at the national championships.
"Okay," Kyon said, unsure of the correct response.
"I'm entering you," Thorne stated. "Novice division. 165-pound class. You're walking around at 168. We'll sweat off the three pounds easy."
The mop handle felt suddenly slick in Kyon's hands. Entering. A tournament. Fights that weren't sparring, with outcomes recorded, with strangers watching, judging. The cold clarity he'd found against Ben warred with a sudden, larval fear in his gut. "I've only been training four months," he said.
"You've been training to survive for seventeen years," Thorne countered. "The boxing part is just refinements. You're ready to see what you look like under lights, with a referee, with a guy across the ring who wants to take your head off for a plastic trophy."
"What if I lose?" The question escaped before Kyon could stop it, revealing a vulnerability he thought he'd buried.
Thorne's expression didn't change. "Then you learn why. And you come back. But you won't lose your first few. Not with how you move. The novices you'll face are brawlers. They'll come straight at you, chin up, swinging for the fences. They're puzzles you're built to solve." He pushed off the ropes. "Decision's made. We start fight camp Monday. Everything gets harder."
---
Fight camp was a new dimension of hell. Thorne's already demanding regimen tightened like a vice. The five-mile jogs became six, then seven, with sprint intervals that left Kyon vomiting bile on the sidewalk. The jump rope sessions extended, incorporating criss-crosses, double-unders, and high knees until his calves felt like burning timber. The food became even more precise—measured portions of lean meat, complex carbs, and greens. No deviation. Water intake was monitored like a science experiment.
The technical work sharpened to a razor's edge. Thorne brought in a sparring partner Kyon had never seen before—a slick, switch-hitting amateur named Darius from a gym across town. Darius was tall, fast, and fought from both stances, a confusing, angular problem designed to disrupt Kyon's rhythm. The first few rounds were humbling. Darius's southpaw jab came from odd angles, his footwork mirroring Kyon's own elusive style.
"Stop trying to out-ghost him!" Thorne bellowed from the corner during a break. "You're the Phantom, not him! Establish your jab. Take the center. Make him react to you!"
It was a lesson in ring generalship, in imposing will. Kyon learned to use his own jab not just as a probe, but as a controlling fence. He learned to cut off the ring against a mover, using feints to herd Darius into positions where his evasiveness was neutralized. By the third sparring session, Kyon was starting to time Darius's switches, catching him mid-stance change with stinging right hands.
One evening, Thorne sat him down in the office with a stack of forms. The amateur boxing application. Kyon filled out his name, date of birth, address (care of The Last Round Gym). He stared at the blank line for "Fighting Name."
"What do I put?" he asked.
Thorne looked up from his own paperwork. "What do you want to be called?"
Kyon didn't hesitate. "The Phantom."
Thorne gave a rare, faint smile. "Then write it. Kyon 'The Phantom' Wilson." He slid a birth certificate and the makeshift apprenticeship papers across the desk. "You'll need these for proof of age and residency. Ms. Green is signing off as your guardian for athletic purposes. It's all squared away."
The bureaucratic machinery was turning. It made it real.
The weigh-in and physical for the district qualifiers was held in a fluorescent-lit community center gymnasium. The air smelled of antiseptic and nervous sweat. Boys and young men of all shapes and sizes milled about, shadowboxing, jumping in place, their eyes darting, assessing. Kyon stood with Thorne, feeling acutely out of place in his sweatpants and hoodie. He saw muscled brutes with necks wider than their heads, skinny kids with wild eyes, technical-looking fighters with neat hair and pristine gear.
He saw Marcus Fuller.
His old tormentor was there with two friends, looking thicker, older, meaner. He wore a varsity jacket from a community college and a scowl. His eyes scanned the room and landed on Kyon. A flicker of confusion, then recognition, then disbelief passed over his face. He saw the transformation—the filled-out frame, the quiet confidence in Kyon's posture, the focused calm in his eyes that was no longer the hollow stare of a victim. Marcus's mouth twisted into a sneer. He said something to his friends, who laughed, but the laughter seemed forced. Marcus looked away first.
Kyon felt nothing. No fear, no anger. Marcus was a relic from a previous life, a character from a book he'd closed. He was irrelevant.
The physical was perfunctory. The doctor listened to his heart, checked his eyes, asked about concussions. "None," Kyon said, which was technically true. The headbutt from Ben hadn't been diagnosed. The doctor stamped his form.
Then the scale. Kyon stepped on, wearing only his shorts. The digital numbers flickered: 164.8. He'd made weight with room to spare. Thorne gave a satisfied grunt.
They were given their match cards. Kyon's first fight was in two weeks, at the same community center. His opponent was listed as "James 'The Bull' Rourke." No record provided.
"The Bull," Thorne mused on the drive back to the gym. "Means he comes forward. Swings hard. Probably gasses after a round. Stick and move. Break him down. Don't get caught in a phone booth."
The next fourteen days were a countdown measured in heartbeats and repetitions. Kyon's focus became absolute. He dreamed in combinations. He shadowboxed while brushing his teeth. The river stone in his pocket was worn smoother from constant, anxious gripping.
The night before the fight, Thorne cancelled evening training. "Rest. Fuel. Mental." They ate a large meal of salmon and sweet potato early. Then Thorne made Kyon lie on the rubbing table in the office with the lights off.
"Visualize," Thorne's voice came from the darkness, calm and steady. "See the walk to the ring. The feel of the canvas under your shoes. The referee's instructions. You hear nothing. You see only him. The bell rings. You move. You jab. He swings. You slip. You counter. You see it all. You've already fought this fight a hundred times. Tomorrow is just a formality."
Kyon saw it. He saw a stocky, red-faced boy charging him. He saw himself pivoting, making him miss, landing sharp, clean shots. He saw the boy's frustration grow, his punches getting wilder. He saw his own hand being raised.
He slept deeply, dreamlessly.
---
The community center was transformed. Folding chairs surrounded a single, elevated ring under harsh overhead lights. The air was thick with the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and anticipation. A sparse but noisy crowd filled the seats—families, girlfriends, gym mates, and old-timers who followed the local fight scene.
Kyon waited in a cramped, curtained-off area that served as the locker room with Thorne and Miguel, who had come for corner support. Kyon wore his new gray hoodie over his gear. His hands were already wrapped. He felt calm, a deep, still pool. The nerves were there, but they were a distant hum, like the crowd noise through the curtain.
"Wilson vs. Rourke! Novice 165-pound division! Fighters to the ring!"
Thorne looked at him. "Remember. You're a ghost. But tonight, you make sure everyone sees you."
They walked out. The lights were brighter than he'd imagined, hot on his skin. A smattering of polite applause, a few catcalls. He kept his eyes forward, on the ring. He climbed through the ropes, a ritual that felt profoundly significant. The canvas was firm, springy. He went to his corner, where Thorne and Miguel pulled off his hoodie. He wore simple black trunks and a black tank top. No flash. Just function.
Across the ring, James "The Bull" Rourke was indeed bull-like. Shorter, with a thick neck and a barrel chest covered in red hair. He glared at Kyon, pounding his gloves together.
The referee, a balding man with a weary expression, called them to the center. "Alright, gentlemen. This is amateur boxing. I want a clean fight. Protect yourselves at all times. Listen to my commands. Touch gloves and go to your corners."
Kyon touched Rourke's gloves, meeting his angry eyes for a second. Then he turned and went back to his corner.
Thorne put in his mouthguard. "First minute, feel him out. Jab. Move. Let him show you what he's got."
The bell rang.
The sound was a physical jolt, a starter's pistol for violence. Rourke came out exactly as predicted—head down, charging forward, swinging a wide, looping right hand.
Kyon's body reacted. He didn't think. He slid to his left, the punch missing by a foot. As Rourke blundered past, off-balance, Kyon tapped him on the side of the head with a left jab. Pap.
It was a scoring blow, nothing more. But it established the dynamic. Rourke growled, turned, and came again. Another wild swing. Kyon slipped it, jabbed again. Pap. And again. Rourke was a storm of clumsy power; Kyon was the eye, calm and untouchable.
The crowd, initially neutral, began to murmur. They saw the pattern. The tall, sleek kid in black was making the brawler look foolish.
"Keep working! Don't get lazy!" Thorne's voice cut through the fog of Kyon's focus.
Rourke, frustrated, tried to bull-rush and clinch. Kyon met him with a stiff jab that snapped his head back, stopping his momentum. Then Kyon circled out, reset. He was breathing easily. Rourke was already breathing through his mouth.
With thirty seconds left in the round, Rourke overcommitted on a left hook. Kyon saw the opening. He slipped inside the arc of the punch and landed a short, compact right hook to Rourke's ribs. Thump.
Rourke grunted in pain, his arm dropping. Kyon pivoted away before any counter could come.
The bell rang. Kyon walked calmly to his corner.
"Perfect," Thorne said, swabbing his face. "He's already tired. He's frustrated. Second round, start putting your combinations together. Jab to the head, right to the body. Don't let him rest."
Round two was a dissection. Rourke's charges were slower, more desperate. Kyon began to unleash. A one-two that rocked Rourke's head back. A jab, slip, left hook to the liver that made Rourke wince. Kyon was everywhere and nowhere, a flickering shadow that stung and vanished.
The crowd was into it now. They oohed at Kyon's evasions, cheered the clean shots. "Look at that footwork!" someone yelled.
With a minute left, Thorne yelled, "Step it up! Finish the round strong!"
Kyon obliged. He backed Rourke into a corner with a flurry of jabs. Rourke, trapped, covered up. Kyon feinted a right to the head, then cracked a brutal left hook to the exposed body. The air left Rourke's lungs in a sickening wheeze. His arms dropped, his face a mask of agony.
Kyon saw it—the complete opening. He could have ended it with a right hand to the jaw. He pulled the punch, instead firing a sharp, scoring jab to the forehead and spinning out of the corner as the bell rang.
Rourke stumbled to his stool, his corner frantically working on him.
In his own corner, Thorne was intense. "Why'd you pull that punch?"
"He was hurt," Kyon said between gulps of water.
"It's a fight. You hurt him more. You have a killer instinct in sparring. Where is it now? This isn't the gym. This is for real. If you have him, you take him. Understood?"
Kyon nodded, the reprimand landing. Mercy was a luxury, a hesitation that could cost you.
Round three. Rourke came out on sheer will, but he was a zombie. Kyon, chastised, went to work with cold efficiency. He didn't play. He broke Rourke down with piston-like jabs and thudding body shots. A minute into the round, a straight right hand split Rourke's guard and landed flush on his nose. Blood erupted.
The referee stepped in, took a look at Rourke's glazed eyes and bloody face, and waved his arms. "That's it! Stop! Winner by TKO, Kyon Wilson!"
The bell clanged. Thorne and Miguel were in the ring, lifting Kyon's arms. The applause was genuine now. He'd put on a show. He looked at Rourke's corner, where the bull was sitting, head bowed, having his nose tended to. No triumph rose in Kyon's chest. Only a quiet satisfaction. A problem solved.
Back in the makeshift locker area, as Thorne unwrapped his hands, the high of victory began to seep in, warm and validating. He'd done it. He'd won his first fight. Not just survived it—dominated it.
"Good debut," Thorne said, examining his knuckles. "A little too pretty at times, but you got the job done. We'll work on that finishing instinct. Next fight's in two weeks. Quarter-finals. You'll get someone better."
As they were packing up to leave, a figure appeared in the doorway, blocking the light. Marcus Fuller. He'd won his own fight, a first-round knockout according to the buzz. A small cut adorned his eyebrow.
"Well, well," Marcus said, his voice dripping with a false, heavy camaraderie. "Look who decided to grow a pair. The Wilson Wraith is a boxer now." He looked Kyon up and down, taking in the defined physique, the calm demeanor. "Got lucky against a bum. Don't get used to it."
Kyon finished zipping his bag. He looked at Marcus, really looked at him for the first time since the alley. He saw the insecurity beneath the bluster, the smallness. "Good luck in your next fight, Marcus," he said, his tone flat, devoid of any emotion—fear, anger, or even contempt.
It was the ultimate dismissal. Marcus's face darkened. He'd expected fear, or a challenge. He got nothing. A void. Just like in the alley. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Thorne stepped forward, his bulk filling the space.
"You need something, kid?" Thorne's voice was low, final.
Marcus backed down, mumbling something, and disappeared.
On the drive back to the gym, the city lights streaking by, Kyon felt the last threads of his old life sever. Marcus was part of the ghost story. The Phantom had been born tonight, under those bright lights, in that ring.
Back at The Last Round, the other fighters who'd been at the show greeted him with nods and fist bumps. "Smooth work, Phantom." "Made it look easy."
Miguel clapped him on the back. "You looked like you've been doing it for years, hermano. The way you moved… it's unnatural. In a good way."
Thorne reheated leftovers. They ate in the office, reviewing the fight on the small TV connected to the camcorder. Thorne pointed out moments of brilliance and moments of hesitation. Kyon watched himself, a stranger in black, moving with a grace he still didn't feel he owned.
"You see this?" Thorne said, freezing the frame on the body shot that hurt Rourke. "That's the money. You hurt a man to the body, you take his soul. Remember that."
Later, alone in his storage room, Kyon took out the river stone. He squeezed it, feeling the solid, unyielding reality of it. He thought of the roar of the small crowd, the feel of the referee raising his hand, the shock of impact on Rourke's nose, Thorne's intense eyes in the corner.
He had a record now. 1-0. He had a path. The tournament bracket was a ladder, and he had taken the first step.
He lay on his cot, the adrenaline finally bleeding away, leaving a profound, weary peace. The unseen boxer had answered the first bell. And the sound he made wasn't a whimper or a cry of rage. It was the clean, sharp, authoritative sound of a problem being solved. It was the sound of a ghost learning to speak.