Charlie pushed through the door of his house, the dusk settling over Maplewood like a heavy blanket. Bruises throbbed across his cheek and ribs-37 hits from Pete and Ray, a start toward "Unbreakable Body 1 Star"—his split lip stung. His backpack swung lightly as he dropped it by the basement stairs.
The gym - Iron Will Fight Club—had been a rush: $500 down for the premium package, Jhon's stunned look at his shadowboxing. "Genius," he muttered, a wild grin tugging his battered face.
The kitchen was quiet, his parents not yet home from their shorter shifts - Harold's door-to-door sales and Marge's factory line - thanks to Charlie's "tournament winnings." He moved with purpose, the Cooking Efficiency Boost shaving seconds off each step as he raided the fridge: chicken thighs, sweet potatoes, a bundle of kale, garlic, a lemon, and spices he'd stocked with his $10,750 savings (post-gym fee). "Something new tonight," he said, voice low, the Flavor Precision Perk tingling in his mind. He'd been at Cooking Level 2 for weeks, mastering salmon and steaks. He preheated the oven to 425ºF, seasoned the chicken with paprika, cumin (it's a spice chill), salt, and a pinch of cayenne, then seared it in a cast-iron skillet, the sizzle filling the air with a smoky tang. Sweet potatoes were cubed, tossed in olive oil, rosemary, and garlic, and then spread on a tray to roast-crisp outside, soft inside. The kale he massaged with lemon juice and salt, wilting it just right, a sharp bite to balance the richness. Timing it all-chicken resting, potatoes golden, kale vibrant—he plated it with a chef's eye, the aroma rich, layered, a step beyond his usual.
His parents shuffled in as he set the table, Marge's eyes widening at the spread. "Charlie, this smells... incredible," she said, her factory apron slung over her arm. Harold grinned, clapping his shoulder. "You're spoiling us, son. What's this one called?" Charlie smirked, wiping his hands. "Uh... Lemon-Spiced Chicken with Rosemary Potatoes and Kale. Made it up." The System chimed in his head: Cooking Master Level 3achieved. He sat, digging in with them, the chicken tender, potatoes crisp, and kale cutting through. "Perfect," Marge murmured, and Harold nodded. "Damn good, son."
Dinner done, Marge noticed his face bruises purpling and lip split and gasped. "Charlie! What happened?" She grabbed a first-aid kit from the cabinet, her voice sharp with worry. He shrugged, casual. "Just a scuffle, nothing big." She frowned, dabbing antiseptic on his lip, the sting muted by his Pain Threshold Bump. "A scuffle? You're all beat up - look at these ribs!" She lifted his hoodie, wincing at the red marks, then taped a gauze pad over the worst spot on his cheek. "You're not fighting at school, are you?" Harold chimed in, stern. "Better not be, son. I'll go talk to your teacher! No! I'll go to the principal!" Charlie shook his head, lying smooth. "Nah, just tripped - hit some pavement. I'm fine." Marge sighed, unconvinced, but let it go, pressing a cold pack to his lip. "Be careful, okay?" He nodded, the warmth of his parents cutting through his focus.
Upstairs, he prepped for bed, the day's ache settling in—today's beating and gym signup. He brushed his teeth, the mirror showing a battered but sharper face-Better Genes Potion at work—and flopped onto his basement bed, expecting the familiar pull of Sleep Fighting. Darkness came, but no ring, no faceless man. His eyes snapped open, confusion prickling. "System," he muttered, "where's the fight?" The chime sounded, voice crisp: Sleep Fighting paused—you need 10% evolution progress to keep fighting. Charlie couldn't believe it, his eyes a little moist... "Finally some good damn sleeping." He rolled over, sleep claiming him fast, dreamless for once.
Morning broke, Thursday's light filtering through the basement window. Charlie rose, soreness lingering but dulled, his lip scabbed over, bruises fading. He jogged his usual three miles, cooked a quick breakfast (eggs, toast, and spinach), and headed to college, the week's rhythm settling in. Math class loomed first, Ms. Carter at the board scribbling quadratic equations - x² + 5x + 6 = 0. Charlie sat mid-row, notebook open, his mind slicing through the factoring -(x+2)(x+3) - Last year, he'd floundered; now, he finished the problem in ten minutes, earning a startled "Correct, Finch" from Carter.
The day blurred - English, history—until lunch, when whispers of a weekend party surfaced. Bobby'd been quiet, but Pete and Ray hinted at it in the hall, their voices carrying: "He's got a plan—patience, man." They stopped talking and didn't make eye contact when Charlie was near. He shrugged it off, focused on this afternoon's sparring at Iron Will. He was about to leave but saw in his locker an invite-scrawled note: Party at Bobby's, 8 PM Saturday. You've changed, Finch-let's bury the hatchet, bad start and all. Come chill. Charlie stared at it, young and naive, his gut tugging. "A party? Huh. Never been to one. Maybe..." He'd go-curiosity, a flicker of hope, maybe he could make a friend, and well, there are some cases in anime where the bully befriends the bullied. And maybe he could get closer to Katie, still a quiet ache.
Charlie tucked in his pocket the invite, a nagging tug in his gut. The sun hung low, casting golden streaks across Maplewood, and his steps turned sharp toward Iron Will Fight Club. His mind burned; he will convince John to let him spar today. He pushed through the gym's door, the familiar hum hitting him-bags thudding, ropes snapping, the clack of pads in the MMA cage.
The air inside was thick with sweat and leather, Thursday's crowd steady - fighters warming up, a lighter buzz than peak nights. Charlie dropped his bag by a bench, and he taped his hands with quick, practiced wraps. He started light—50 jabs at the mirror, snapping crisp from the shoulder; 30 hooks twisting through his hips; 20 crosses driving forward; then three minutes on the jump rope, feet flickering in a steady rhythm. Sweat beaded, but he kept it easy. John spotted him and approached. "You ready, kid? Charlie looked at him curiously "Ready for what?" John grinned. "What do you mean, for what? Didn't you want to spar?" Charlie's grin widened. "Yeah. Let's go."
John nodded, waving him over to a corner near the ring. "C'mere, kid." Charlie followed, dropping his bag as John grabbed a roll of white boxing tape from a battered stool. "Hands out," John said, his voice gruff but steady. Charlie extended his fists, and John started wrapping quick, precise loops around his wrists, over the knuckles, and between the fingers, forming a tight, supportive shield. "Ain't seen you with wraps yet-gotta protect these bones," John muttered, finishing the job with a firm tug. He stepped back, eyeing Charlie's hands, then rummaged in a box of gear, pulling out a pair of worn red bloves-10-ounce, scuffed but solid. He squinted, holding them up to Charlie's fists, measuring with a practiced glance. "These'll fit. Good enough for now-keep 'em, and the wraps too. Your fancy premium stuff's still comin'." Charlie slipped them on, flexing his fingers, the weight familiar from Sleep Fighting dreams.
John jerked his thumb toward the ring. "You're up against Mike. Been here a year, got a good jab, decent footwork-close to what I saw from you yesterday, though I'm guessin' here. He's solid." Charlie nodded, his grin holding. "No problem." John handed him a headgear and a new mouth guard and clipped it on, muttering, "Safety first, kid." They approached the ring, where Mike waited, leaning on the ropes-a wiry guy, early 20s, hair buzzed short, eyes narrowing as Charlie climbed in. One day in the gym, and he's sparring with me? Mike thought, sizing him up. John had pulled him aside earlier—"Go easy, he's new"-but Mike's jaw tightened. Easy? Nah, he's cocky-thinks boxing's a game. Deserves a littleheat.
The canvas creaked under their feet, John at the edge, whistle between his lips. "Three rounds, three minutes each. Keep it clean," he barked, then blew-fight on. Mike bounced out, circling left, snapping a jab at Charlie's guard. Charlie raised his forearms, the thud firm against the wraps-counts if it's strong, he thought, System Logic ticking. Another jab grazed his headgear, and a hook slammed his ribs-he took it, stance rooted, Pain Threshold Bump dulling the sting. He didn't swing back, just bobbed, gloves up, letting Mike land five hits, ten, fifteen. Mike's eyes flickered with confusion, his rhythm breaking as punches met no resistance.
The gym slowed. Rick paused, wiping a bench, squinting. Somchai, the Muay Thai trainer-short, sinewy-stopped his pad work, "No hit back?" Hana, the taekwondo coach-tall, sharp-eyed—crossed her arms, tilting her head. "He's eating those?" Diego, the MMA trainer - stocky, scarred—smirked from the cage. "Tank or fool." Fighters drifted closer-bag guy, rope skippers, a woman wrapping hands—whispers buzzing. "Not swinging?" "What's he doing?" John's voice cut sharp. "Hit back, Charlie! Scared? C'mon, goddamn it!" Charlie ignored it and kept counting-20,25-Mike's jabs slowing, breath hitching.
Round two, Charlie dodged more-slipping a jab left, pivoting from a hook-still taking hits, 30, 35. Mike pushed harder, a cross thudding Charlie's guard, a hook cracking his ribs-he stood firm, eyes calculating. He's tiring. John roared, "Fight, kid! Stop being a punching bag!" Rick muttered, "What's his deal? Is he afraid to hit others?" Somchai shook his head, Hana frowned, and Diego chuckled. Round three-30 seconds left-Mike's arms sagged, jabs weak. Now. Charlie dropped his guard, dodged a sluggish swing, and struck a right cross, weight shifting from back foot to front, shoulder driving, Punch Power Perk surging, fist smashing Mike's chin with a crack. Fuck. That was Mike's last thought as his head snapped back, eyes rolling, and he dropped, out cold, as the bell clanged.
Silence hit, then gasps-Rick's jaw dropped, Somchai blinked, Hana's arms fell, Diego's smirk faded. John froze, whistle dangling, then bellowed, "Holy shit, kid!" Fighters muttered, "One punch?" "He tanked all that?" Charlie stood, grinning wildly, the system chiming: 42 hits received (28 direct, 14 blocked). Total: 79/1000. Mike stirred, groaning and getting up. he was stunned, while thinking, "I lost..." as John rushed in.
Charlie hopped out of the ring, peeling off his gloves with a casual tug. The gym's stunned silence broke into murmurs-fighters drifting back to their routines, the heavy bag thudding again, ropes snapping in rhythm. Rick stood, shakin his head, muttering, "Kid's a damn freak," as he hauled Mike to his feet, the wiry fighter blinking groggily but nodding he was fine.
Somchai approached first, his short frame moving with a quiet swagger, wiping sweat from his brow. "Oi, new kid-Charlie, yeah? I'm Somchai, Muay Thai, Saw that punch-good power. You got premium, so come to my class anytime, eh?" He clapped Charlie's shoulder, a quick grin flashing before he turned back to his pads. Hana stepped up next, her tall figure cutting through the dim light, arms still crossed. "Hana, Taekwondo. You've got god form. Premium means my door's open-your kicks need work, so you better come." Her sharp eyes lingered assessing, then she nodded and walked off. Diego sauntered over last, his scarred hands stuffed in his pockets, smirking faintly. "Diego, MMA. You took a beating like a chap, then dropped him, crazy, kid. Swing by my cage when you feel like it." He chuckled, turning away as the gym's buzz sttled back to normal. Charlie nodded to each, his mind ticking, Muay Thai, Taekwondo, MMA- all mine with premium. The Jiu-Jitsu trainer seems to not be here today, but the package meant free rein, any class, any time.
He grabbed his water bottle and his backpack, heading for the door as dusk painted Maplewood in sot oranges, when John caught up, leaning againste the wall outside, hands in his pockets. "What was that, kid?" he asked, voice low, eyes searching Charlie's bruised face. Charlie shrugged, looking at his taped fist, the sunset glisting off it. "Nothing - just watching his moves, tiring him out. When he's tired, you hit with everything." John stared, then tilted his head to the sky, fishing a cigarette from his jacket. He lit it, the flame flaring briefly, and took a slow drag, smoke curling into the air. "What's your goal, Charlie? You've got talent, real talent. Let me train you, I'll make you one of the greats."
Charlie's breath hitched, his eyes widening. He flashed back- fat, listless, slumped in his basement, no spark, no fight. Now John, a grizzled coach, saw something in him - training, federation, a shot at being a boxer, a dream he'd never dared. The System's hum pulsed in his mind, a silent thak you for dragging him this far. He smiled, genuine and warm, meeting John's gaze with appreciation. "I don't know what I want yet. For now, I just wanna fight - get better at everything. Maybe that, yeah, you never know." John exhaled smoke, a faint grin tugging his lips. "Good answer, kid." He extended a hand, and Charlie shook it, firm and sure. "I'll make you strong- real strong. The other trianers too. But don't forget - boxing's tough. It's falling and getting up, over and over, before the count's done."
"I'm counting on you!" Charlie said, his grin flashing bright, then he turned, heading down the street. John watched him go, cigarette glowing, thoughts churning. He's gonna need stamina training, his style's wild, taking hits like that. There's monster out there who last forever... you'll have to outlast 'em, Charlie.
Half a block later, Mike stepped out from the shadows, arms crossed, face serious, his chin still red from the cross. "Heard you and John," he said, voice flat. "So tiring me out, studying my style, then the knockout punch." He made a sad and a tired face. "I've been here for a year, and never got that kinda offer." Charlie paused, reading the edge in Mike's tone, then nodded, understanding. "Let's keep sparring," he said, "I'll be your punching bag, I need to train stamina and toughness. Count on you to hit me hard, Mike. Forge your punches on me." Mike blinked, suprise cracking his mask, then smirked faintly. "You're nuts, man... but fine. I'll hit you hard." He nodded, a grudgind respect flickering, and stepped back. Charlie turned, walking home under the deepening dusk, his steps light despite the bruises, mind racing with perks and money from the system ahead.