Days turn into weeks.

  Weeks turn into months.

  Time doesn’t pass.

  It consumes.

  Jason holds a one-arm handstand on the concrete floor of the underground.

  Arm locked like a pillar, body aligned, tremor under control.

  His breath is a thin blade between his teeth.

  Bronx watches from below, eyes half-closed.

  A low growl slips out.

  Not aggressive.

  A comment.

  Jason doesn’t come down.

  He tightens more.

  Again.

  Explosive static lunges.

  A massive barbell across the back of his neck crushes his vertebrae like a promise.

  Legs burn.

  The floor takes sharp hits every time he drives upward.

  One-arm pull-ups.

  In the other hand, a block of concrete.

  His grip is a vise.

  Curls with a barbell that shouldn’t move.

  Metal groans.

  Biceps swell like they want to tear through skin from the inside.

  A vein throbs on his neck—thick, alive.

  Rope.

  Jason jumps without perfect rhythm, but without stopping.

  Breath short.

  Calves shaking.

  Sweat runs into his eyes and burns.

  Bronx sprawls nearby, asleep, indifferent.

  Sometimes one eye opens.

  Closes again.

  Like he’s already decided Jason doesn’t die today.

  Dragon squat.

  Jason sinks slow, controlled—

  then rises with clean violence.

  Sweat falls in heavy drops, shattering on the floor, mixing with old stains.

  Stains that never really leave.

  Then everything changes.

  It’s not strength anymore.

  It’s technique.

  It’s war.

  Michael strikes.

  Punches and kicks—precise, lethal, no waste.

  Not “fast.”

  Right.

  Every hit has a reason.

  And a place.

  Jason answers.

  At first he’s clumsy.

  Too wide.

  Too loaded.

  Too much break everything.

  Michael punishes him.

  Every mistake has an immediate price:

  a shot to the ribs,

  a kick to the flank,

  a sharp slap that spins his head and snaps the world back into place.

  Jason learns.

  He becomes more fluid.

  Then… he becomes dangerous.

  Michael points out vital spots on anatomical dummies like he’s revealing a secret map of the body.

  He doesn’t talk much.

  He touches.

  Shows.

  Then hits.

  The wooden dummy takes a punch and creaks.

  Another hit.

  It breaks.

  Gel replicas get pierced with fingers, elbows, fists.

  The sound is disgusting and real, even when it’s not flesh.

  Wet snap.

  Tear.

  Simulated fracture.

  Jason tries.

  Fails.

  Tries again.

  The first time he really gets it right, he freezes for a second, staring at the hole in the gel—

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  like he just saw his worst side smiling back at him.

  Michael doesn’t congratulate.

  He barely nods.

  And they start again.

  Daily fights.

  Michael beats him without mercy.

  Jason ends up on the ground.

  Blood in his mouth.

  Bruises changing color every two days.

  Knuckles swollen.

  Ribs stabbing with every breath.

  Then he gets back up.

  Always.

  New scars.

  Swollen eyes.

  A cut on his eyebrow that opens and closes so many times it stops looking like an accident.

  Determination grows day after day—

  a living thing.

  Ugly.

  Necessary.

  Then the first real difference happens.

  Jason starts to predict.

  Not always.

  Not well.

  But enough to change everything.

  A strike comes and he feels it before it lands.

  Shifts weight.

  Blocks.

  Dodges.

  Slides aside.

  And while he pants—still pants like a beast—

  he starts to smile.

  It’s not joy.

  It’s hunger.

  Michael watches in silence.

  The monster…

  is learning control.

  —

  In the underground, the light is cold.

  Almost clinical.

  A neon flickers over the worn, stained tatami.

  The air is thick with sweat—

  the fresh kind dripping now…

  and the old kind, embedded in the concrete like the smell of war.

  Jason is shirtless.

  His torso is an archive of recent violence:

  purple bruises, scratches, marks that haven’t decided whether to heal or stay.

  He breathes hard, chest rising and falling like a bellows.

  But his eyes are clear.

  In front of him—Michael.

  Dark tank top.

  Loose combat pants.

  Calm.

  Still.

  Predatory—like this place is a natural extension of his body.

  Michael speaks without raising his voice.

  “Again.”

  Jason launches forward.

  Jab.

  Straight.

  Low kick.

  Side sweep.

  Precise movements.

  Fluid.

  No more clumsiness.

  No more plastered rhinoceros.

  There’s technique now.

  And hunger—the hunger of someone who understands that if he screws up, he breaks.

  Michael blocks the first two strikes.

  Evades the kick with half a step, like shifting a thought.

  Then—Jason changes.

  He pivots, steps in closer than he should, and snaps a sudden lock on Michael.

  A clean bind.

  A move that isn’t strength.

  It’s timing.

  Michael loses his axis for a split second.

  And that’s enough.

  He slams into the wall.

  THUD.

  A heavy bag tips over.

  Dust everywhere.

  A dull impact that feels like it shakes the entire underground.

  Jason freezes—one second too long.

  Eyes wide.

  Like he doesn’t believe what his hands just did.

  “Huh?”

  A half-growl, stupid and proud.

  “What do you think about that?!”

  Michael lowers his gaze.

  Silence.

  Then a low, deep laugh.

  Almost animal.

  When he looks up… he’s smiling.

  And it’s a disturbing smile, because it doesn’t say good job.

  It says finally.

  “Gooood…”

  Pause.

  “The kid learned how to walk.”

  Michael’s eyes ignite with orange light.

  Warm.

  Dangerous.

  His voice tightens to a wire.

  “It’s time…”

  A beat.

  “…to learn how to run.”

  A dense aura erupts from Michael’s body.

  It’s not light.

  It’s pressure.

  The air vibrates.

  Objects tremble.

  Loose papers lift off a table like they’re afraid.

  The neon above them hums differently—

  more nervous, like it’s about to die.

  Jason takes a step back without meaning to.

  His mouth hangs half open.

  A shiver runs down his spine and for a moment he feels the same sensation he gets right before he strikes—

  except this time…

  he’s the target.

  Under his breath, almost out of air:

  “…Oh shit…”

  Hard cut.

  Black.

  After.

  Jason is slammed on the ground.

  Covered in wounds, bruises, cuts.

  His body can’t tell where pain ends and exhaustion begins.

  Half-conscious.

  And yet…

  a dumb little grin pulls at the corner of his mouth.

  Like some part of him is happy to still be alive.

  His eyes close.

  Pistol Boy.