The classroom buzzed with restless chatter, the weight of Charlie's confrontations in the quad pulsing in his chest like a live wire. Katie's stammering apology, Bobby's grudging retreat under his fierce stare, the teachers' stunned glances—all of it stoked a restless fire, a thrill that crackled beneath his skin. The bell had rung minutes ago, ushering in the final class—English with Ms. Ellis—and Mr. Hargrove had just shuffled out, muttering about mixed-up faces, his roster clutched tight. Whispers rippled through the room—"That's him?" "He's so different"—but Charlie tuned them out, his pen tapping the desk, his mind drifting to last night's System chime: Unbreakable Body—1,000 real hits for 1 Star. Sleep Fighting didn't count; only real punches would forge that strength into his bones. His lips twitched, a hungry spark cutting through Ms. Ellis's droning lecture.
She spoke of a poem—resilience, struggle, heavy metaphors—but Charlie's mind, honed by the Better Genes Potion, absorbed every word effortlessly. Last year, he'd zoned out, scraping by; now, the meaning stuck, clear and sharp. Ms. Ellis handed back a vocab quiz—another A in red ink. She paused, peering over her glasses. "Charles Finch? You're… not what I expected from last year's records." He shrugged, voice low. "Things change." She nodded, uncertain, and moved on. The minutes crawled, the poem fading into background noise as Charlie flexed his hand under the desk, the Muscle Density perk tightening his skin, muscles pressing where flab once sagged. The final bell rang, a sharp jolt, and he grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder. The day was done, his pulse steady but alive with restless energy.
He stepped into the hall, the crowd parting slightly as he moved—whispers trailing like shadows, his lean frame cutting through, hoodie less baggy than three months ago. The quad outside hummed with students spilling out, the afternoon sun casting long streaks across the pavement. Charlie's stride was steady, his aggressive eyes scanning ahead, oblivious to the tension brewing elsewhere. Earlier, while he'd been scratching answers in class, Pete and Ray had cornered Bobby near the parking lot, voices low and sharp. Pete, wiry and buzz-cut, had hissed, "Bobby, come on. Finch thinks he's hot shit now. We've gotta take him down—show him who's boss." Ray, stocky and restless, smirked, bouncing on his toes. "He's into kickboxing or something, right? We've been training too—me and Pete can handle him, like you taught us." Bobby, leaning against a rusted sedan, arms crossed, jaw tight, shook his head. "No. You didn't see his eyes. That bastard's done things—seen things. His look's menacing, like he's fought for his life. I know it." Pete scoffed, stepping closer. "What, you scared? Bobby Klein's a coward now?" Ray piled on, "He's just a loser who dropped weight. You're running from that?" Bobby's gaze hardened. "You're idiots. There's other ways to mess with him—violence ain't the only play. I'll figure it out. Leave it." Pete spat on the ground, turning to the others. "Fine, stay soft. We'll do it ourselves." The gang grumbled—Bobby's lost it, we don't need him—and peeled off, their plan set.
Now, as Charlie crossed the quad toward the exit, Pete's voice sliced through. "Hey, Finch!" Charlie turned, spotting Pete and Ray stalking toward him, the other two trailing at a distance. Pete smirked, fists loose at his sides. "Follow us if you ain't a coward. Got something for you." Charlie's eyes narrowed, a wild glint sparking—Real hits. Unbreakable Body. "Sure," he said, voice steady, dropping his backpack by a tree. "Lead on." The crowd thinned as they veered behind the gym, a shadowed patch of cracked asphalt and faded graffiti tucked out of sight. Pete cracked his neck, Ray bouncing on his toes—both leaner, sharper than last spring, kickboxing drills etched into their stances from months of mimicking Bobby.
"Think you're tough?" Pete sneered, lunging with a jab. Charlie didn't dodge—his arms stayed low, the punch snapping his head back, a sting flaring on his cheek. Ray swung in, a sloppy hook slamming into his ribs, a kick grazing his thigh. Charlie grunted, standing firm, the Pain Threshold Bump dulling the blows to a muted thud. He didn't hit back—just took it, lips curling into a faint, unhinged grin. Pete and Ray froze, exchanging glances. "What the fuck?" Ray muttered, throwing another kick—shin to Charlie's side, a solid crack. Charlie barely flinched, his eyes blazing, wild and crazy. Fifteen hits landed—punches, kicks, wild swings—and they panted, sweat beading, while Charlie stood tall, bruises blooming but his stance unbroken.
"How's he still up?" Pete gasped, stepping back, fists trembling. "That's it, eh?" Charlie barked, voice rough and wild. "Hit me more, c'mon!" His mind raced—It doesn't hurt that much. Fifteen down, 985 to go for Unbreakable Body 1 Star. This is my shot! Pete's jaw dropped, Ray's eyes widening. "You fucker!" Pete roared, charging again, a flurry of jabs—chest, jaw, ribs—Ray joining with kicks, their training sloppy but fierce. Charlie blocked some, forearms up, but let most land, counting silently—20, 25. They tired fast, breaths ragged, fists slowing, while Charlie laughed, a manic edge cutting through. "Hit me more, you weak bastards!" he yelled, his crazy eyes glinting, blood trickling from a split lip but his grin wide.
They hammered him—28 hits, 32—and collapsed, exhausted, hands on knees. Charlie stood, bruised but steady, blocking half the blows with dream-honed instinct. "Hahaha!" he cackled, voice booming. "Is that all? More, hit me more!" The System chimed: 37/1,000 toward Unbreakable Body 1 Star. Pete stumbled back, panting. "Fuck, crazy bastard!" Ray wheezed, turning to run, Pete scrambling after. "Waaaaiitt!" Charlie shouted, lurching forward. "Hit me more! Why you running? Scared now? FUCK, I need someone to hit me!" They bolted, curses fading—He's insane, what the hell—and Charlie stood alone, chest heaving, a mad grin splitting his face.
"Cowards," he muttered, wiping blood with his hand. Then genius struck, his frenzied mind alight. "Wait… Boxing. Martial arts clubs. I'll be a punching bag in sparring! Challenge everyone, take every hit—get to 1,000 fast! I'm a genius… hahaha!" He grabbed his backpack, adrenaline surging, striding toward town as the sun dipped, shadows stretching across Maplewood's streets.
The Iron Will Fight Club loomed downtown, a squat brick building with a faded sign. Charlie pushed through the door, the air thick with leather, sweat, and liniment. The gym buzzed—a boxing ring center stage with two fighters trading jabs, an MMA cage in the corner, a tatami mat where grapplers drilled jiu-jitsu. Heavy bags thudded, jump ropes snapped, and sparring pairs circled. Charlie stood, bruises stark under the fluorescent lights, blood crusted on his lip, his lean frame taut beneath his hoodie. A stocky man in a worn gi approached, his bald head gleaming, eyes flicking over Charlie's roughed-up look. Damn, this kid's fresh from a fight, he thought, frowning. Bullies messed him up, now he's here for defense.
"Kid," the man said, voice gruff but gentle, "don't go messing with the punks who did this. Revenge ain't worth it." Charlie blinked, then smirked, shaking his head. "Eh? Nah, it's not like that." He straightened, eyes glinting. "You got a premium package? Full access—boxing, jiu-jitsu, taekwondo, MMA, everything?" The man—Rick, the gym's manager—raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. "Yeah, but it's steep—$500 upfront, $150 a month after. Start with one style first." Charlie's grin widened. "No, I want it all. And gear—MMA gloves, boxing gloves, gi pants, boxing shoes, mouthguard, taekwondo stuff—everything."
Rick's jaw slackened. "Everything? We'd need to order some, take measurements." Charlie waved it off. "No worries. Can I start now?" Rick hesitated, then nodded, sensing something in this bruised kid's insistence. He's got cash, alright. "Yeah, boxing class is on. Jhon!" He snapped his fingers, calling a lanky coach in a faded tracksuit, muttering, Treat him right—he might be loaded. Charlie dug into his savings—$11,250 from Hell Summer, minus $500 for the package, leaving $10,750—and handed over the cash. "Done," he said, voice steady.
Jhon approached, sharp eyes scanning Charlie's bruises, split lip, wild gaze. "What happened to you, kid?" he asked, concern lacing his tone. Charlie shrugged. "Nothing. Can you teach me?" Jhon frowned but nodded. "Alright, basics. Mirror work—jabs, form. Might be boring, but it's how we start." Vengeance is bad, kid, he thought. I'll teach, then talk sense into him. He positioned Charlie before a wall of mirrors—feet shoulder-width, left foot forward, fists up. "Jab—snap it out, pull it back. Like this." Jhon's one-two cut the air, crisp and clean.
Charlie mirrored him, his left jab snapping sharp, the Punch Power perk adding weight. His right followed—a hook curling with hip twist, then a cross, smoother than Jhon expected. His footwork shifted—light bounces, Agility Spike keeping him balanced, pivoting like Ali's tapes. Jhon watched, eyes narrowing—jab, hook, jab, cross—Charlie's rhythm wasn't raw. The jab whipped, the hook carried force, his feet danced. This ain't beginner, Jhon thought, stunned. Where'd he get this? "Hey!" he barked. "Where'd you learn to box? Truth, kid, and I said jabs only!"
Charlie paused, wiping sweat, a smirk tugging his bruised lip. "By myself," he said, casual. "And if I know more, why stick to basics? I wanna spar—get good fast." Jhon's brow furrowed, disbelief clashing with curiosity. "No way… impossible. Why spar so bad?" Charlie's grin widened, a lie sliding out. "Love fighting!" His mind screamed—Need that Unbreakable Body! So damn cool!—but he kept it locked, eyes glinting. "Goal's every style—boxing, jiu-jitsu, taekwondo. Spar, spar, spar!"
Jhon stared, grappling with the kid's words, his bruised face, that unhinged energy. "That's crazy, kid… what, a fighting genius?" Charlie shrugged, grin unshaken. "Don't know till I try." Jhon sighed, shaking his head. "Shadow-box for now—basics." As Jhon turned, Charlie called inward, "System, boxing routine. Good equipment here." The chime sounded, screen flickering: Routine: 100 jabs, 50 hooks, 50 crosses, 5 minutes jump rope, 3 minutes bag work. He dove in—jabs like gunfire, hooks carving arcs, crosses punching through, rope snapping steady, then fists thudding the heavy bag, sweat dripping, bruises aching but ignored.
Hours bled by, the gym emptying as Charlie pushed, his form tight, relentless. He left at dusk, wiping sweat and blood with his sleeve, the day's grind etched into his frame. Jhon watched him go, leaning against the ring, thoughts swirling. That jab, that footwork—not beginner. Kid's got something… crazy, but something. He rubbed his chin, a decision hardening. He wants to spar? Fine. Tomorrow, I'll give him what he's asking for—let's see what he's made of.