Charlie racked the weights with a heavy clang, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat streamed down his face, stinging his eyes, but he barely registered it. His muscles burned—deadlifts had strained his back, squats had turned his legs to jelly, and planks had left him trembling. Two months of this punishing grind had carved away some of the fat, revealing faint muscle definition in his arms and shoulders, a whisper of strength he'd never imagined. But his mind was a tangled mess, frayed by the relentless cycle of workouts, dream fights, and the emotional toll of constant effort.
He wiped his brow with his soaked towel, the fabric clinging to his hand. His thoughts weren't on the gym's sterile hum or the weights—they were on her. The blonde receptionist's bright smile, the water bottle she'd handed him, her sudden compliments: "You've changed a lot. You look great." The words echoed, sharp and hollow. Two months ago, when he'd shuffled in, gasping and dripping sweat, she'd barely glanced at him. Now she was all warmth and attention, and it grated. Not the kindness, but the timing. It felt conditional, tied to his shrinking frame, and it left a bitter taste.
The System's voice cut through, calm and deliberate. Confrontation, delivered respectfully, fosters personal growth.
Charlie snorted, slinging the towel over his shoulder. "Respectfully," he muttered. "Like that's gonna make this less weird." But the idea took root. Her shift in behavior—ignoring him before, fawning now—felt like a spotlight on his flaws, past and present. It wasn't right, and the more he dwelled, the more it festered.
He stood, staring at the weights lined against the wall, their cold metal gleaming under the fluorescent lights. His fists clenched, then relaxed. "Fine, System," he grumbled. "If this goes south, it's on you."
Taking a deep breath, he turned toward the counter. Each step felt heavier, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. The gym was quieter now, the morning crowd thinning, leaving only a few lifters clanging weights in the corners. The blonde sat on a stool, scrolling her phone, her workout gear accentuating a frame that made Charlie hyper-aware of his baggy, sweat-soaked XXL shirt.
She looked up, her face brightening with a practiced smile. "Hey, Charlie! Done already? You're crushing it—"
"I need to say something," he interrupted, his voice low but firm. He gripped the towel, twisting it tightly, his heart pounding. His eyes met hers, steady despite the nerves. "You've been real nice lately, and… I get why. I'm smaller now, look better, whatever. But when I started, when I could barely lift, you didn't even see me. Ignored me for months. I don't like that. It feels… fake."
Her smile froze, eyes widening in a flicker of shock. She set her phone down, a nervous laugh escaping. "Oh, uh… wow. I didn't mean it like that. I was just… busy, you know? Crazy shifts, tons of paperwork. I'm sorry if it seemed off. You're cool now—I mean, you always were, just…" She trailed off, brushing hair behind her ear, her cheeks pink.
Charlie's tired eyes held hers, searching. Her words were quick, a reflex to deflect, not a reckoning. She was sorry for being called out, not for her actions. The exhaustion in him—physical, mental—dulled any anger. It wasn't worth it. Time would pass. People would move on.
"Yeah, okay," he mumbled, his tone flat. He shifted, turning away. "Thanks for the water."
Her smile twitched, uncertain. "No problem! Keep killing it, okay?"
He didn't respond, shuffling to the lockers. The System chimed softly. Well done, Charlie. Clarity gained.
Charlie scoffed, shoving his towel into his bag. "Clarity? Feels like I just wasted my breath. She didn't mean it."
Her intent is irrelevant. You spoke your truth. That is progress.
Zipping his bag, Charlie slung it over his shoulder. "Progress," he muttered, bitter. "Sure." The confrontation hadn't lifted him—it left him heavier, another burden on his fraying mind.
The bus ride home was a haze. Charlie slumped against the window, the cool glass soothing his cheek. The seats around him stayed empty, as always. More room, he thought, but the positivity felt forced, fleeting. The city blurred past—gray buildings, flickering lights, people rushing through their lives. His body ached from the gym, his mind clouded by sleepless nights, and the day wasn't over. The dream ring loomed, its faceless beast waiting to crush him again.
He stumbled into the basement, the stairs creaking like an old grudge. Dropping his bag, he collapsed onto the couch, legs splayed. The dim nightlight cast long shadows, the air thick with the musty scent of concrete. He stared at the ceiling, hands limp in his lap. "Six days," he whispered. "Six days of this hell, and I'm a zombie." The workouts, the cooking, the Sleep Fighting—it was relentless. His body endured, propped up by the System's stamina perks, but his mind bore the scars of phantom pain—broken bones, spilled blood, endless torment.
Rubbing his face, he pushed himself up. "Gotta cook," he muttered, trudging upstairs. His parents would be home soon, and dinner was his anchor, his task, his reward.
In the kitchen, he moved like a machine. Salmon fillets, quinoa, broccoli—ingredients lined up with precision. The System's simulation guided him, his hands steady as he seasoned the fish, the pan sizzling with sharp, savory notes. He chopped broccoli, the knife's rhythm grounding him, though his mind drifted to the ring, to the faceless man's fists.
The front door creaked, and Marge's voice broke through. "Charlie? Oh, smells amazing!" She stepped in, purse slung over her shoulder, her face brightening. "Look at you, hard at work."
"Hey, Mom," he said, glancing back with a faint nod. "Almost done."
She leaned against the counter, her eyes softening as they traced his slimmer frame. "You're different, honey. All this cooking, whatever you're doing—it's changing you. I'm so proud."
Charlie's hands paused, the spatula hovering. Her words warmed him, a flicker of light in his haze. "Thanks, Mum," he mumbled, focusing on the pan.
Howard entered, loosening his tie. "Smells like a damn restaurant," he said, grinning as he clapped Charlie's shoulder. "You're doing great, son. We're rooting for you."
Charlie's lips curved slightly. "Thanks, Dad." The encouragement was simple, steady, easing the weight on his shoulders.
They ate, the table set with steaming plates. Light chatter filled the silence—Marge and Howard sharing work stories, Charlie nodding, his responses brief but present. He cleared the table, the System chiming: Task complete. Reward: $100. He pocketed the virtual cash and dragged himself downstairs, each step heavier than the last.
Collapsing onto his bed, Charlie stared at the ceiling, the dim light weaving patterns across the plaster. Sleep beckoned, but the dream ring loomed—the pain, the faceless bastard. He closed his eyes, bracing himself.
The ring materialized, ropes taut, lights blinding. The faceless man stood opposite, his iron skin gleaming, his blank visage chilling. The bell rang.
Charlie barely raised his fists before a jab snapped his head back, pain exploding in his skull. A hook crushed his ribs, stealing his breath. A kick sent him sprawling, his dream-body screaming. He swung wildly, grazing the man's shoulder, but it was like punching stone. The beast countered with an uppercut, and Charlie crashed to the mat, the cold surface biting his cheek.
Round after round, the onslaught continued. Charlie scrambled up, legs shaking, throwing feeble punches that stung his knuckles more than his foe. By the eighth round, he was a wreck—dream-blood trickling, body trembling. The faceless man loomed, delivering a final knee to his chest that sent him down.
He woke gasping, clutching his chest, heart racing. His real body bore only workout aches, but his mind throbbed with phantom pain. Sweat soaked his sheets, his breath uneven.
Progress: Combat instinct 0.07%.
Charlie flopped back, hoarse. "Another night crushed. Thanks for nothing."
Morning dragged him from bed, his body protesting. In the bathroom, the mirror caught his eye. Dark circles framed his gaunt face, but his skin was clearer, his jaw sharper, the Better Genes Potion working its slow magic. He didn't linger—pride was a luxury he couldn't afford.
In the kitchen, he made breakfast—oatmeal, protein powder, a banana—eating against the counter, his parents already at work. The house was silent, morning light slicing through the blinds. He chewed, mind on the faceless man's fists, their mocking weight.
He grabbed his gym bag and headed to the park, the air crisp against his face. The old man was there, tossing crumbs to ducks. "Morning, kid," he waved.
"Morning," Charlie grunted, dropping his bag. The boxing simulation flickered, guiding his jabs and hooks. His form was rough—shoulders tense, feet sluggish—but a rhythm emerged, echoes of the Ali and Tyson videos he studied nightly. He punched with intent, breath puffing, arms burning.
The old man watched, brow furrowed with quiet curiosity. Charlie didn't notice, lost in the simulation—jab, cross, hook, repeat. When he finished, drenched and panting, he slumped beside the old man, wiping his face.
"Getting better," the old man said, tossing a crumb. "Tougher than you look."
Charlie shrugged, catching his breath. "Maybe. Still feel like an idiot out here."
The old man chuckled, raspy. "Better than doing nothing. Keep going, kid."
"Yeah," Charlie muttered, staring at his calloused hands. "Guess so."
That afternoon, Charlie sat on his couch, scrolling his phone. The park's public drills were wearing on him—stares, whispers, the old man's quiet scrutiny. "System," he said, voice firm. "I need gear. Punching bag for my room, jump rope. Where's my money?"
Current savings: $8,100 after expenses. Punching bag with stand: $150. Jump rope: $10. Affordable.
Charlie nodded, ordering the equipment with a few taps. "Tired of looking like a fool in public. Time to bring the fight home."
Wise choice. Equipment will enhance training efficiency.
Charlie smirked faintly. "Hope it helps me survive your damn dream fights." His smirk faded, the faceless man's blank stare flashing in his mind. "I'm gonna figure you out," he muttered. "One way or another."