Will finished his push-ups and stood, shaking out his arms once before setting his feet shoulder-width apart. He lowered himself into a squat, moving slow on the way down, then drove back up with force. He repeated the motion, controlled on the descent, explosive on the rise. His thighs started to burn after the first few repetitions, and he adjusted his stance slightly to keep his balance.
He kept squatting until his legs shook and his breathing turned rough. When the burn crossed into pain, he did not stop. He pushed through it without a clear reason, only knowing that stopping early felt worse than continuing. He stayed with it until his legs finally gave out and he had to brace his hands on his knees to keep from falling.
He stayed there until the shaking eased.
He wanted change, even if he did not know what shape it would take.
After a moment, he dropped back down and started doing sit-ups. He anchored his feet under the edge of the bed frame and worked in steady repetitions. His stomach tightened with each movement, and his breathing stayed measured. By the time he finished, his core felt heavy and sore in a way he had learned to accept.
He had started volunteering at a local MMA gym a year ago.
The gym belonged to Chuck Withers, a retired Army veteran who had set it up in Queens, not far from where Will had grown up. It was in the part of Queens most people only passed through, south of the nicer neighborhoods and closer to the industrial blocks, where auto shops, warehouses, and old brick buildings crowded together. It was loud during the day, quiet at night, and rough enough that people minded their own business.
Chuck was African American and in his fifties, lean to the point of looking fragile. Cancer had nearly killed him after he left the military in his forties, but he had survived it and used what money he had to open the gym. He liked to say that as long as there was air in his lungs, he was not done living. He said it casually, usually while taping someone's hands or pacing the mat.
Chuck had opened the gym in a rough part of town, but it stayed untouched. He had friends in places that mattered, and people who thought about causing trouble usually decided against it. Nobody messed with the gym.
Chuck was a serious trainer. Within three years, he had produced multiple nationally ranked fighters, two of whom were in the top ten of their weight classes. He ran the place tight and expected effort every time someone walked through the door.
Will was sure Chuck had taken pity on him at first.
He had been caught watching the gym half a dozen times from outside, lingering near the windows. At first, Chuck had run him off without much patience. Then one day, instead of yelling, Chuck told him to come inside and clean the place.
Will had done it with more effort than necessary. He scrubbed mats until his hands hurt, emptied trash, wiped down equipment, and stayed quiet the entire time. When Chuck told him to come back the next day, Will showed up early. He kept coming back after that.
For a year, Will tried to copy the workouts he saw at home. He paid attention to how the fighters moved, how they stood, how they shifted weight. He practiced in his room, careful not to hit the walls. He also tried to imitate the martial arts techniques as best he could, even though he had never been formally taught.
The day before, Chuck had finally asked him if he worked out.
Will had nodded.
Chuck had told him to hit a heavy bag.
Will had never actually trained on a bag before, but he did what he could. He demonstrated basic punches first, keeping his hands up and his stance stable. His strikes were rough, but they landed clean enough. Then Chuck told him to kick.
Will's kicks landed with solid thuds against the bag. Not perfect, but controlled.
Chuck had looked at him for a long moment, studying him, then asked if he had learned all of that just by watching.
Will had nodded again.
Chuck had not said anything right away.
Chuck had told him he could start training twice a week for an hour at a time. That had been a few months ago, and since then Will felt like something in his life had finally started to line up.
Training did not replace the volunteering. Will still went to the gym after school. He would drop his backpack at home, grab something small to eat, and take the train over. On training days, he arrived early and worked first. On non-training days, he still helped out. He cleaned mats, wiped down equipment, emptied trash, and stayed out of the way unless Chuck needed him.
Chuck never said Will was doing well. He did not talk about progress unless something was wrong. Will did not care. He showed up, did the work, and listened.
He was hungry for more than just training. He wanted strength, structure, and space away from everything that waited for him at home. The gym gave him a place where effort mattered and expectations were clear.
Chuck had helped him with the biggest problem in his life.
His father.
Will took a shower, washed the sweat off, and stood under the water long enough for the heat to loosen the tightness in his back and shoulders. The bathroom fan rattled overhead, its cover slightly loose, pushing damp air into the hallway. He shut the water off, wiped steam from the mirror without looking at himself, and dried off with a towel that smelled faintly of detergent that never quite worked. He pulled on clean clothes, tugged his shirt straight, and tied his sneakers tight, double-knotting the laces out of habit. He moved quietly, careful with doors and loose floor tiles that clicked if stepped on wrong.
The apartment was a three-room unit paid for by the state. One small bedroom for him and Peter, barely wide enough for two beds and a shared dresser. One bedroom their father claimed, the door usually shut. A narrow living room that doubled as everything else. The walls were thin, the paint uneven where it had been patched more than once, and the heat worked only when it felt like it. It was functional in the way places were when no one expected more from them.
When Will stepped into the living room, his father was there.
He was passed out on the couch, slumped crooked with one arm hanging off the side. Long, greasy black hair clung to his neck and shoulders, and his beard was thick and untrimmed. He was a mountain of a man, broad even without the beer belly that stretched his shirt tight and rode up his stomach. Whiskey bottles were scattered around the room, some empty, some half-full, clustered near the coffee table and along the floor. One rolled slightly when Will brushed past it and tapped softly against the couch leg. His father snored through it, chest rising unevenly.
On paper, his father was a "disabled" single parent. He collected checks, talked about old injuries, and did not work. Most days he drank. When he was awake, he was mean. When he was drunk, he was worse.
Will's mother had left years earlier. He hardly remembered her at all. What little he retained were blurred impressions that never settled into a clear face or voice.
Much later, after he reached a certain level of cultivation, he would remember everything with painful clarity. He would remember that she had a broken eye socket and four broken ribs. He would remember that he had a sister, and that she had taken her when she left. He would remember that she left Will and Peter behind.
None of that was clear to him yet.
Will exhaled slowly as he looked at the man on the couch, his jaw tightening. Things were moving in a positive direction now, if only barely. Their father was no longer physically violent. That did not make him better. It only meant the damage had changed shape.
A month earlier, things had gone the way they usually did.
Will and Peter had been in Peter's room, sitting on the floor with a Monopoly board between them. The carpet there was worn thin and flattened, the pattern faded in places where feet crossed most often. Peter was twelve, slimmer than Will, with the same black hair and blue eyes but none of their father's bulk. He was sharp in school in a way teachers noticed immediately. Will sat across from him, sorting paper money into uneven stacks, occasionally nudging a pile back into place with his thumb.
The door slammed open without warning.
"What the fuck is this?" their father shouted. "Where is dinner, and why isn't this place cleaned? Get to work. Now."
They both moved at once. Will pushed himself up from the floor. Peter stepped back too fast and caught his heel on the edge of the board. The game flipped, and pieces scattered across the room. Plastic houses bounced and slid under the bed. Cards fanned out over the carpet.
Will saw the fear hit Peter's face before anything else happened.
"Goddammit," their father said as he crossed the room.
The backhand came fast. Even when he did not swing hard, their father hit heavy. Peter flew sideways and hit the wall with a dull sound before dropping to the floor. He curled in on himself, gasping, one arm pulled tight against his ribs.
Will stepped forward immediately and shoved his father back.
For a split second, his father just stared at him. Will could see it in his eyes. There was no thought there. Only red.
Their father turned on him without pause.
He pulled the belt from his waist and snapped it once, the sound sharp and flat in the small room. Will stayed where he was. The first strike hit his back. The second caught his shoulder. The belt came down again and again. Will clenched his teeth and fixed his eyes on the wall. He did not yell. He did not move.
When it was over, their father dropped the belt and staggered out, muttering to himself.
Will stayed on the floor until the shaking in his legs stopped. Then he pushed himself up and crossed the room, joints stiff, and knelt beside Peter. He checked him the way he always did, steady hands, quiet voice. Peter was breathing. His hands were shaking, but he was conscious.
That was how it usually went.
Will took the hit so Peter did not have to.
There was a limit to how much Will could hide.
It was a training day, and he still showed up. He wore sweats and a thick sweater even though the gym was warm, the kind of heat that stuck to your skin once you started moving. The fabric clung to him as he worked, darkening at the collar and under the arms. He kept his head down and followed the drills, jaw tight, shoulders stiff.
He tried. He really did.
Every movement pulled at something tender. His timing was off. His steps were half a beat slower, and he favored one side without realizing it. He ignored it and kept going.
Chuck noticed.
He did not stop the session. He did not call attention to it. He watched from the side while correcting another fighter, arms folded, eyes sharp. Halfway through, he told Will to take off the sweats and the sweater.
Will froze for a second. Then he did it.
The bruises showed immediately. Dark purple across his ribs. Yellowing marks along his arms. Older lines layered under fresh ones. The room went quiet in that way gyms sometimes do without meaning to.
One of the fighters nearby stared and muttered, "What the fuck, man."
Chuck said nothing. He looked once, slow and thorough, then nodded. He told Will to keep working. Then he told a few fighters to come with him. They grabbed their bags and followed him out without asking questions. The door closed behind them.
Will finished the workout.
He ran the drills alone. Sweat dripped onto the mat. His breathing stayed tight, controlled. His legs shook by the end, and his arms felt hollow, but he did not stop until there was nothing left in him. No one told him to.
When Will got home later, his father was there.
He was beaten. Not just roughed up. His face was swollen, one eye nearly closed, his lip split and dried dark. He smelled like old whiskey and iron. He did not say a word. He did not look at Will. He sat on the couch and stayed there.
After that, his father never laid a single hand on Will or Peter again.
Will did not ask questions. He did not thank anyone. He understood enough.
He could survive this. He could change his direction. He would do it through MMA. The sport was more popular than ever, and Will believed he could make something of himself there. He had said it more than once. Once he got his GED, he would train full time. He meant it.
In the gym, Will was already different. He absorbed punishment and kept moving. He learned fast. He pushed past pain without dramatizing it. He did not think of himself as anything special.
He was not a monster. He was a hungry, beaten-down, abused kid who wanted something different.
And that would have been enough.
But life, fate, and the heavens had fucking other plans.
There was a limit to how much Will could hide.
It was a training day, and he still showed up. He wore loose sweats and a thick sweater even though the gym was already warm, the air heavy with the smell of rubber mats, sweat, and disinfectant. The fabric stuck to him almost immediately once he started moving, damp at the collar and clinging along his back. He kept his head down, eyes forward, jaw set, and followed the drills without saying a word.
He tried. He really did.
Every movement pulled at something tender. His ribs complained when he rotated. His shoulder dragged half a second behind where it should have been. He shifted his stance without thinking, favoring one leg when the pressure got sharp. He noticed it, corrected it, and kept going anyway.
Chuck noticed too.
He did not stop the session or call Will out. He watched from the side while taping another fighter's wrists, tugging the tape tight with his teeth before smoothing it down. His arms were folded afterward, his weight settled evenly on both feet. Halfway through the session, he told Will to take off the sweats and the sweater.
Will hesitated, fingers catching in the hem for a second, then pulled them over his head.
The bruises showed right away. Dark purple spread across his ribs. Yellowed marks traced along his arms and shoulders. Some were older, edges fading, others still deep and fresh. One of the fighters paused mid-stretch, hands on his knees, and stared.
"What the fuck, man," he muttered.
Chuck did not react outwardly. He looked once, slow and deliberate, eyes moving from ribs to shoulders to the way Will stood. He nodded once and told Will to keep working. Then he told a few fighters to grab their stuff and come with him. Shoes squeaked as they turned. A locker door slammed. The front door closed behind them with a solid click.
Will finished the workout alone.
He ran through the rest of the drills on the mat, sweat dripping off his chin and spotting the floor. His breathing stayed tight and controlled, chest rising shallow and fast. His legs shook when he planted, calves twitching, and his hands felt stiff when he tried to shake them out. He did not stop until the routine was finished and his body had nothing left to give.
When he got home later, his father was there.
He was slumped on the couch, posture collapsed inward. One eye was swollen nearly shut. His lip was split, dried blood crusted dark at the corner of his mouth. A faint smell of whiskey and copper hung around him. He did not speak. He did not look up. He stayed where he was, breathing shallow and uneven.
After that, his father never laid a single hand on Will or Peter again.
Will did not ask questions. He did not thank anyone. He did not need to.
He could survive this. He could change his direction. He would do it through MMA. The sport was more popular than ever, and Will believed he could make something of himself there. He had said it plainly before. Once he got his GED, he would train full time. There was no hesitation when he said it.
In the gym, Will was already different. He took hits and kept moving. He learned by watching and copying, adjusting his own body without being told. Pain did not slow him as much as it should have. He did not think of it as anything special.
He was not a monster. He was a hungry, beaten-down, abused kid with bruises under his clothes and a direction that finally made sense.
And that still would not be enough.
Life, fate, and the heavens had fucking other plans.