The sound of fists hitting leather echoed off the cracked concrete walls of the old gym, mingling with the low thud of footwork and the sharp exhale of breath. The building had no sign outside, just a rusted metal door tucked between two mechanic shops and a flickering streetlight that painted everything in shades of yellow and shadow. This was Blake Connors' sanctuary—not because it was safe, but because it was real. No fakes came here. No posers. Just people who wanted to fight or had nothing else left but the fight.
Blake adjusted the hand wraps around his knuckles, pulling them tight with a yank of his teeth. He was fifteen, about 5'11", all wiry muscle and taut energy, . His hair, shaggy and dark, clung to his forehead with sweat, and a fresh bruise was beneath his jaw from sparring earlier.
"Connors! You up."
Blake glanced up from the bench as Anton, the gym owner, called out from the other side of the ring. The man had a voice like gravel and hands that looked like they'd punched bricks for fun. Blake liked him. Anton didn't ask questions. He just gave him space, training, and the occasional twenty bucks for cleaning up after hours. It was more than most offered.
He stood, rolling his shoulders. Every joint cracked like dry twigs. He'd already gone three rounds earlier, but someone new had walked in—a guy with too-clean gloves and a face that hadn't seen enough punches. Blake didn't like guys like that. They showed up thinking this was some underground Fight Club fantasy.
He climbed into the ring barefoot, the canvas cool under his feet. His stance settled naturally: hands up, elbows tight, knees bent just enough to spring. Muay Thai wasn't just fists. It was knees, elbows, shins. It was violence turned into rhythm. Art painted with blood.
The other guy stepped in. Taller. Muscular. Confident. Blake could already tell from the way he bounced on his feet that he thought this would be easy.
Anton didn't say much. Just let it start.
Blake didn't rush. He never did. He waited, letting the guy move first. A jab. Then a sloppy cross. Blake slipped both, stepping just out of reach. He answered with a leg kick—a hard one—cracking his shin against the guy's thigh. The man flinched. Good. Blake pressed in.
He threw a teep kick to the chest, pushing his opponent back, then followed with a flying knee that narrowly missed the guy's jaw. It wasn't about showboating. It was about sending a message: I'm not here to play with you.
The guy threw a wild hook.
Blake ducked, pivoted, and drove an elbow into the man's ribs. The sound it made was wet. He followed with a sweep—one sharp twist of his hip and a low kick that took the guy's legs out from under him. He hit the canvas hard, groaning.
Anton raised an eyebrow. "Enough, Connors."
Blake backed off, chest rising and falling steadily. He didn't look smug. Just focused. He offered the guy a hand, and after a moment, the man took it.
"You fight like you're angry," the guy muttered.
Blake shrugged.
After cleaning up, Blake left the gym and walked the cracked sidewalks of Beacon Hills, keeping his hoodie up against the cool night air. He didn't live far. The neighborhood got quieter the deeper he walked, the kind of quiet that made your thoughts louder.
Home was a dull, two-bedroom duplex on the edge of town. His dad—a bitter, heavy-handed mechanic who stopped trying after Blake's mom left—was usually asleep by now. But not tonight.
As Blake opened the door, the sound of a beer can cracking open hit him before the stench of old cigarettes did.
"You were out late again," his dad called from the couch, not bothering to turn off the TV.
Blake kicked off his boots. "Gym."
"That all you ever do? Punch things?"
Blake bit down a retort. "It's better than sitting around getting drunk."
The silence that followed was short and sharp. His dad stood, slow and stiff, towering over him by just a few inches, belly sagging over a stained shirt.
"You think you're better than me?"
"No," Blake said flatly, not flinching. "I just think I'm different."
His dad sneered, half-laughing. "Different. Sure. You keep chasing pain like it's gonna love you back."
Blake didn't respond. He just turned, walked to his room, and shut the door harder than he needed to.
He collapsed on the bed without bothering to shower, still in his gym clothes. The bruises ached. His jaw pulsed. But the exhaustion dulled everything else. Within minutes, he was asleep.
The next morning came fast.
His alarm buzzed at 6:30, and he dragged himself out of bed. Cold shower. Toast with nothing on it. No words from his dad.
Blake walked to Beacon Hills High in the same hoodie, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He didn't have friends. Just people who didn't talk to him. That suited him fine.
He sat in the back of every class. Didn't talk unless forced. Teachers didn't call on him anymore. They knew better.
Something different happened during second period. A substitute came in to replace Mr. Dobson in English. He set his briefcase down with precision and turned to the class with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Your regular teacher is out for the rest of the week," the sub announced, brushing invisible dust from his jacket sleeve. "The school asked me to step in."
Blake sat up a little. That was weird. Mr. Dobson never missed class. Ever.
Still, whatever. He didn't care.
The sub started calling roll. He had a strange rhythm to his voice, like he was reading poetry he didn't understand.
When he got to Blake, he paused. "Blake Connors."
"Here," Blake replied, eyeing him.
The sub nodded slowly. "Interesting name."
Blake stared. "Is it?"
The man smiled faintly. "Names mean things."
Something about it made Blake's skin crawl. But when he looked around, no one else seemed to notice. He jotted a note on his paper, but his eyes kept flicking back to the sub.
After school, Blake didn't go home.
He didn't want to deal with his dad again, not tonight. Not when the gym was closed and he had nowhere else to go.
So he ran.
He changed in the school bathroom, pulling on old running pants and a tighter hoodie. He headed straight for the preserve, his breath fogging in the late afternoon air.
He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs ached, until all he could hear was the crunch of leaves and the beat of his heart. The woods wrapped around him like a cocoon, and eventually, he collapsed against a tree and let himself rest.
His eyes closed.
When he opened them again, it was pitch black. Crickets. Wind. Distant rustling.
He pulled out his phone.
10:02 PM.
"Crap," he muttered.
He stood, brushing leaves from his back.
That's when he heard it.
Rustling. Not wind. Not an animal. Something big.
His breath caught.
He squinted into the darkness.
Then he saw them.
**Red eyes.**
Unblinking. Watching.
A beat passed. Then the eyes vanished.
He turned slowly, heart hammering. The hairs on his arms stood on end.
Then a second pair of red eyes appeared. Closer. Lower.
Then movement.
Fast. Too fast.
Something exploded from the brush.
Blake barely had time to turn. He heard the growl, felt the weight, the heat, the **teeth.**
His scream never made it out of his throat.
Pain lit up his side, something tearing into his ribs. He hit the ground, gasping, the world spinning. The last thing he saw before blacking out was a massive, bear-like creature, eyes glowing like fire, disappearing into the trees.
But it wasn't a bear.
It was something else.
Something worse.