Charlie pushed through the front door of his house, the deepening dusk cloaking Maplewood in a heavy, purple haze. Bruises throbbed across his cheek and ribs—37 hits from Pete and Ray's ambush, a gritty step toward Unbreakable Body 1 Star—and his split lip stung with every breath. His backpack swung lightly as he dropped it by the basement stairs, the day's rush still burning in his veins. Iron Will Fight Club had been electric: $500 down for the premium package, Jhon's stunned gaze at his shadowboxing, the promise of sparring tomorrow. "Genius," Charlie muttered, a wild grin splitting his battered face, the Punch Power perk tingling in his knuckles.
The kitchen was quiet, his parents not yet home from their shortened shifts—Harold's door-to-door sales and Marge's factory line eased by Charlie's "tournament winnings." He moved with purpose, the Cooking Efficiency Boost streamlining each step as he raided the fridge: chicken thighs, sweet potatoes, kale, garlic, a lemon, and spices stocked with his $10,750 savings (post-gym fee). "Something new tonight," he said, voice low, the Flavor Precision perk sparking in his mind. At Cooking Mastery Level 2 for weeks, he'd mastered salmon and steaks; now he aimed higher. He preheated the oven to 425°F, seasoned the chicken with paprika, cumin, salt, and a pinch of cayenne, then seared it in a cast-iron skillet, the sizzle releasing a smoky tang that filled the air. Sweet potatoes were cubed, tossed in olive oil, rosemary, and garlic, then roasted to a crisp exterior and tender core. The kale he massaged with lemon juice and salt, wilting it to a sharp, vibrant bite to balance the richness. Timing it like a conductor—chicken resting, potatoes golden, kale vivid—he plated with a chef's eye, the aroma layered and bold, a leap 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, fatigue softening her smile. Harold grinned, clapping his shoulder. "You're spoiling us, son. What's this called?" Charlie smirked, wiping his hands on a towel. "Lemon-Spiced Chicken with Rosemary Potatoes and Kale. Made it up." The System chimed: Cooking Mastery Level 3 achieved. They sat, digging in, the chicken tender, potatoes crisp, kale cutting through with zest. "Perfect," Marge murmured, savoring a bite. Harold nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Damn good, son. You're outdoing us."
Dinner passed with light chatter—Harold joking about his treadmill gains, Marge sharing a coworker's gossip. Then Marge's gaze caught Charlie's face—bruises purpling, lip scabbed—and she gasped, dropping her fork. "Charlie! What happened?" She scrambled for the first-aid kit, voice sharp with worry. He shrugged, casual despite the sting of her antiseptic dab on his lip, muted by the Pain Threshold Bump. "Just a scuffle, nothing big." She frowned, lifting his hoodie to reveal red marks across his ribs, wincing as she taped gauze over the worst bruise on his cheek. "A scuffle? You're all beat up—look at these ribs!" Harold leaned in, stern. "Better not be fighting at school, son. I'll talk to the principal!" Charlie shook his head, lying smoothly. "Nah, tripped—hit some pavement. I'm fine." Marge sighed, unconvinced, pressing a cold pack to his lip. "Be careful, okay? You're worrying me." He nodded, her warmth cutting through his focus, a quiet anchor in his storm.
Upstairs, Charlie prepped for bed, the day's ache settling in—Pete and Ray's beating, the gym's intensity, Jhon's offer. He brushed his teeth, the mirror reflecting a battered but sharper face, the Better Genes Potion carving away flaws. Flopping onto his basement bed, he braced for Sleep Fighting's pull—the ring, the faceless man. But darkness came, dreamless and heavy. His eyes snapped open, confusion prickling. "System," he muttered, "where's the fight?" The chime sounded, voice crisp: Sleep Fighting paused. 10% evolution progress required to resume. Charlie blinked, a grin spreading, eyes glinting with relief. "Finally… a damn good sleep." He rolled over, sleep claiming him fast, deep and unbroken for the first time in months.
Morning broke, Thursday's light filtering through the basement window, painting the concrete in soft streaks. Charlie rose, soreness lingering but dulled, his lip scabbed, bruises fading under the Muscle Density perk's tightening grip. He jogged his three miles, sneakers pounding Maplewood's quiet streets, the Stamina Surge carrying him effortlessly past the park where the old man once watched him shadowbox. Back home, he cooked breakfast—eggs, spinach, toast—his Cooking Efficiency making it quick, the Flavor Precision perfecting the balance. Showered and dressed in jeans and his oversized hoodie, he grabbed his backpack and headed to college, the week's rhythm settling in.
Math class came first, Ms. Carter scribbling quadratic equations—x² + 5x + 6 = 0—on the board. Charlie sat mid-row, notebook open, his Better Genes-sharpened mind slicing through: (x+2)(x+3). Last year, he'd floundered; now, he finished in ten minutes, earning a startled "Correct, Finch" from Carter, her eyes lingering on his lean frame. The day blurred—English with Ms. Ellis dissecting metaphors, history with Mr. Hargrove muttering about changed faces—until lunch, when whispers of a weekend party surfaced. Pete and Ray had hinted at it in the hall, their voices low: "Bobby's got a plan—patience, man." They clammed up when Charlie passed, avoiding his gaze. He shrugged, focused on the afternoon's sparring at Iron Will. In his locker, he found a scrawled note: Party at Bobby's, 8 PM Saturday. You've changed, Finch—let's bury the hatchet. Come chill. Charlie stared, naive hope flickering—a party, a chance to belong, maybe even connect with Katie, still a quiet ache. Bullies turn friends in anime sometimes, he thought, tucking the invite in his pocket, gut tugging with unease.
The sun hung low, casting golden streaks across Maplewood as Charlie's steps turned toward Iron Will Fight Club. His mind burned with one goal: convince Jhon to let him spar today. He pushed through the gym's door, the familiar hum hitting him—bags thudding, ropes snapping, pads clacking in the MMA cage. The air was thick with sweat and leather, Thursday's crowd steady but lighter than peak nights. Charlie dropped his bag by a bench, taping his hands with quick, practiced wraps—over wrists, around knuckles, between fingers. He warmed up: 50 jabs at the mirror, snapping crisp; 30 hooks twisting through his hips; 20 crosses driving forward; then three minutes on the jump rope, feet flickering in rhythm. Sweat beaded, his Agility Spike keeping him light, but he stayed controlled, saving energy.
Jhon spotted him, approaching with a grin. "You ready, kid?" Charlie's eyes lit up, curious. "Ready for what?" Jhon's grin widened. "What do you mean, for what? Didn't you want to spar?" Charlie's smile flashed, wild and eager. "Yeah. Let's go."
Jhon waved him to a corner near the ring. "C'mere." Charlie followed, dropping his bag as Jhon grabbed a roll of white boxing tape. "Hands out," Jhon said, gruff but steady, wrapping tight loops around Charlie's wrists and knuckles, forming a protective shield. "Ain't seen you with wraps yet—gotta save those bones." He finished with a tug, then rummaged in a gear box, pulling out scuffed 10-ounce red gloves. He squinted, sizing them to Charlie's fists. "These'll do for now—keep 'em, and the wraps. Your premium gear's coming." Charlie slipped them on, flexing his fingers, the weight familiar from Sleep Fighting. Jhon handed him headgear and a new mouthguard, clipping them on. "Safety first, kid."
They approached the ring, where Mike waited, leaning on the ropes—a wiry guy, early 20s, buzzed hair, eyes narrowing as Charlie climbed in. One day here, and he's sparring me? Mike thought, sizing him up. Jhon had told him, "Go easy, he's new," but Mike's jaw tightened. Easy? Nah, he's cocky—thinks boxing's a game. Deserves heat. The canvas creaked under their feet, Jhon 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—Counts if it's strong, he thought, System logic ticking. Another jab grazed his headgear, a hook slamming his ribs—he took it, stance rooted, Pain Threshold Bump dulling the sting. He didn't swing back, bobbing with gloves up, letting Mike land five hits, ten, fifteen. Mike's eyes flickered, confusion breaking his rhythm as punches met no resistance. The gym slowed—Rick paused wiping a bench, squinting; Somchai, the Muay Thai trainer, stopped pad work, muttering, "No hit back?"; Hana, the taekwondo coach, crossed her arms, tilting her head, "He's eating those?"; Diego, the MMA trainer, 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?" Jhon's voice cut sharp. "Hit back, Charlie! Scared? C'mon, goddamn it!" Charlie ignored him, 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. Jhon roared, "Fight, kid! Stop being a punching bag!" Rick muttered, "What's his deal? Afraid to hit?" Somchai shook his head, Hana frowned, Diego chuckled. Round three, 30 seconds left—Mike's arms sagged, jabs weak. Now. Charlie dropped his guard, dodged a sluggish swing, and unleashed a right cross, weight shifting, Punch Power surging, fist smashing Mike's chin with a crack. Mike's 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. Jhon froze, whistle dangling, then bellowed, "Holy shit, kid!" Fighters muttered, "One punch?" "He tanked all that?" The System chimed: 42 hits received (28 direct, 14 blocked). Total: 79/1,000. Mike stirred, groaning, as Jhon rushed in. Charlie hopped out, peeling off his gloves with a casual tug, grinning wildly. The gym's stunned silence broke into murmurs—fighters drifting back, bags thudding, ropes snapping.
Somchai approached, his short frame swaggering, wiping sweat. "Oi, Charlie, yeah? Somchai, Muay Thai. Saw that punch—good power. Premium means my class is open, eh?" He clapped Charlie's shoulder, grinning, and turned back to his pads. Hana stepped up, tall and sharp-eyed, arms crossed. "Hana, taekwondo. You've got form. Your kicks need work—come to my class." Her gaze lingered, assessing, then she nodded and walked off. Diego sauntered over, scarred hands in pockets, smirking. "Diego, MMA. Took a beating like a champ, then dropped him. Swing by my cage." He chuckled, turning away. Charlie nodded, mind ticking—Muay Thai, taekwondo, MMA—all mine with premium. The jiu-jitsu trainer was absent, but the package meant free rein.
Jhon caught up outside, leaning against the wall, hands in pockets. "What was that, kid?" he asked, eyes searching Charlie's bruised face. Charlie shrugged, glancing at his taped fist, sunset glinting off it. "Watched his moves, tired him out. Hit when he's weak." Jhon stared, then tilted his head, fishing a cigarette from his jacket. He lit it, flame flaring, and took a drag, smoke curling. "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, eyes widening. He flashed back—fat, listless, slumped in his basement, no spark. Now Jhon, a grizzled coach, saw something—a path to federations, a boxer's dream he'd never dared. The System's hum pulsed, a silent nod for dragging him here. He smiled, warm and genuine, meeting Jhon's gaze. "Don't know yet. For now, I wanna fight—get better at everything. Maybe that, yeah." Jhon exhaled smoke, a faint grin tugging his lips. "Good answer." He extended a hand, and Charlie shook it, firm. "I'll make you strong—real strong. The others too. Boxing's tough—falling, getting up, before the count's done."
"I'm counting on you!" Charlie said, grin flashing, then turned, heading down the street. Jhon watched, cigarette glowing, thoughts churning. He's wild, taking hits like that. Needs stamina—monsters out there last forever. You'll have to outlast 'em, Charlie.
Half a block later, Mike stepped from the shadows, arms crossed, chin red from the cross. "Heard you and Jhon," he said, voice flat. "Tiring me out, studying my style, then the knockout." He made a sad, tired face. "Been here a year, never got that offer." Charlie paused, reading the edge in Mike's tone, then nodded. "Let's keep sparring. I'll be your punching bag—need stamina, toughness. Hit me hard, Mike. Forge your punches on me." Mike blinked, surprise cracking his mask, then smirked. "You're nuts… but fine. I'll hit hard." He nodded, respect flickering, and stepped back. Charlie walked home under the deepening dusk, steps light despite bruises, mind racing with perks, plans, and the party invite burning in his pocket.