The next morning, Blaze couldn't get out of bed.
Every muscle in his body felt like it had been beaten with pipes. His jaw was swollen, lip cracked, ribs sore with every shallow breath. The cut above his right eye had crusted over during the night, sticking to the cheap pillowcase he never bothered to wash properly.
No fanfare. No trophies. Just pain.
But Blaze didn't smile out of pride. He smiled because he knew.
This was the part where most guys quit.
He'd seen it in school, at every job, in every corner of life: people fold when it hurts.
Not me.
By noon, he was limping back toward the gym.
It wasn't about proving something to the others now. It was between him and himself. That's all.
When he pushed through the gym doors, the usual crowd glanced over. Rico smirked. Dez wasn't there. Probably somewhere bragging about how he broke the rookie's ribs.
But Mason was.
The old man stood by the heavy bag, arms folded, unreadable face as always.
"You're an idiot," Mason muttered. "Could've stayed home. Rested."
Blaze shrugged, wincing. "Hurts at home, too."
Mason almost smiled. Almost. "You're not done yet."
"What do you mean?"
"You think getting beat up makes you tough? Anybody can get punched. The ones who get better—those are the dangerous ones."
He tossed a roll of fresh gauze at Blaze's chest. "Tape up."
Training Changed After That.
No more random drills. No more watching Blaze hit the bag like a tourist.
Now it was real.
Footwork drills until Blaze's calves cramped. Shadowboxing with Mason correcting every detail—hands too low, elbows too flared, feet crossing over. Again. And again. And again.
Punches thrown not for power, but with purpose. Shoulders loose, hips turning, breathing right. Precision over ego.
And defense. God, the defense. Slipping, weaving, rolling under imaginary hooks like his life depended on it.
"Can't win a fight if you're asleep on the canvas," Mason kept saying.
Every time Blaze got frustrated, Mason would point at the bags hanging in the corner.
"You think those bags hit back? They don't. Life does. And so will Dez. And anyone else standing across from you."
It wasn't heroic. It wasn't cinematic.
It was repetition. Sweat. Small victories.
A good pivot. A clean jab. A glove popping against the pad just right.
Every night, Blaze came home with bruises and bloody knuckles—but the grin was starting to return. Not the grin of someone cocky. The grin of someone finally feeling his own shape under the dirt.
And one night, after a long round of mitt work, Mason finally said it:
"You're a fighter now."
No one else heard it. No one clapped. No music played.
But to Blaze?
It was better than any anthem in the world.