Dusk draped Maplewood in a heavy, purple haze as Charlie pushed through his front door, the Thursday night air cool against his battered skin. Bruises pulsed across his cheek and ribs—37 hits from Pete and Ray's ambush, a gritty step toward Unbreakable Body 1 Star—his split lip stinging with each breath. His backpack swung lightly as he dropped it by the basement stairs, the rush of Iron Will Fight Club still blazing in his veins: $500 for the premium package, Jhon's stunned look at his shadowboxing, Mike's crumpled form, and Jhon's offer to make him great. "Genius," Charlie muttered, a wild grin splitting his bruised 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." No elaborate recipe tonight; he opted for quick fuel, grabbing Wednesday's leftover lemon-spiced chicken, a loaf of whole-grain bread, lettuce, and mayo—his $10,750 stash kept the pantry stocked with quality. He toasted two slices to a golden crisp, smeared mayo thickly, layered shredded chicken, and tucked in crisp lettuce. The sandwich came together in minutes, simple but hearty, the flavors clean and satisfying. As he took a bite, the System chimed: Cooking task complete. +$100. Balance: $10,850. He smirked, chewing—every meal a step forward.
Marge and Harold shuffled in as he set the table, three plates with sandwiches and a pitcher of water. Marge's eyes softened, her factory apron slung over her arm. "Charlie, you didn't have to cook again," she said, voice warm but weary. Harold clapped his shoulder, grinning. "Smells good, son—keepin' us fed." They sat, and Charlie took a breath, his grin fading to something earnest. "Gotta tell you something. I joined a gym—Iron Will Fight Club. Boxing, Muay Thai, MMA—real stuff. I'll come home beat up sometimes, but it's training, not trouble." Marge froze, face paling. "What? Charlie, who's hitting you? That's not safe!" Harold's eyes lit up, leaning forward. "Fighting, huh? That's a man's game! You winnin' yet?" Charlie raised a hand, steady. "Yeah, Dad, knocked out a guy in sparring today. I'm learning, getting stronger. Come see it sometime." Marge frowned, touching his gauze-taped cheek, fingers trembling. "You're already hurt… we'll visit soon, maybe this weekend, but please, be careful." Harold nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "How was the guy? Tough?" Charlie's grin flashed, wild. "Solid, but I dropped him with one hit." They ate, Marge's worry lingering, Harold's pride glowing, Charlie feeling their trust settle like an anchor.
He cleared the plates, the kitchen clock ticking past eight. Upstairs, he brushed his teeth, the mirror showing a sharper, battered face—bruises purpling, lip scabbed, but 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 stayed calm, dreamless. His eyes snapped open, confusion prickling. "System," he muttered, "where's the fight?" The chime sounded, crisp: Sleep Fighting paused. 10% evolution progress required to resume. Charlie grinned, relief glinting in his eyes. "Finally… another damn good sleep." He rolled over, sleep claiming him fast, deep and unbroken.
Friday's dawn broke gray, the basement window glowing faintly. Charlie rose, soreness dulled but present, his lip scabbed tight, bruises fading under the Muscle Density perk. He laced his sneakers, the morning air biting as he hit Maplewood's quiet streets for his three-mile run. Lawns glistened with dew, a delivery truck rumbled past, his breath puffing in steady bursts. Near the park, the old man—white hair, weathered jacket—looked up from his newspaper, raising a hand. "Keep it up, little tank!" he called, voice raspy but warm. Charlie grinned, waving back, chest swelling. From fatty to this, he thought, feet pounding harder, the park blurring past.
Back home, hunger clawed after the run. He skipped eggs, craving something fresh. Pulling flour, eggs, milk, and cinnamon, he mixed a batter, the griddle hissing as he poured rounds. Pancakes bubbled golden, the sweet-spiced aroma filling the kitchen. He stacked three, drizzled maple syrup, and dug in, the fluff yielding to a warm, spiced bite. The System chimed: Cooking task complete. +$100. Balance: $10,950. He nodded, scarfing the rest, mind flicking to class.
Maplewood Community College buzzed with Friday's hum—students milling in the quad, lockers slamming, a chill lingering in the halls. Charlie slipped into biology, mid-row, notebook open. Mr. Evans, wiry with graying hair, scribbled a cell diagram—mitochondria like tiny ovals. "Cells are factories," he said, voice carrying. "What do mitochondria do?" Charlie's hand shot up. "Make energy, right?" Evans nodded, adjusting his glasses. "Close, Finch—convert glucose into ATP. Fuel, not raw power." Another question: "What's ATP for?" Charlie tried, brow furrowing. "Gives cells strength?" Evans smiled faintly. "Near enough—it's their gasoline, runs every process." Others chimed in—some right, some fumbling—the class stretching on.
Across the room, Emma Harper caught his eye—not Katie, not that fading crush, but something new. She sat near the front, glasses framing deep green eyes, light brown hair in a loose braid spilling over her shoulder. Faint freckles dusted her cheeks, softening her sharp smile, which flashed quietly at a classmate's answer, magnetic in its restraint. Popular but understated, her white blouse and jeans were simple yet striking, a calm beauty. She glanced at Charlie as he spoke, her gaze lingering—not just on his leaner frame but the spark in his answers. Bobby slouched a few rows back, silent, his usual swagger dimmed.
The bell rang, and Charlie shuffled out, notebook tucked under his arm. In the cafeteria, he grabbed a turkey sandwich—soggy bread, passable meat—and sat alone, unwrapping it slowly. Footsteps approached, and he looked up—Emma, braid swaying, glasses catching the light. "Hey, Charlie," she said, voice clear with a hint of warmth. "Nice change. Didn't know you had it in you." Her green eyes met his, direct, freckles shifting as she smiled, soft but sure. Charlie's face warmed, throat catching. "Uh, thanks," he managed, awkward. "Just… trying to be better." She laughed, light and easy, adjusting her glasses. "Looks like you're doing more than that." She turned, joining her friends, and Charlie watched her go, heart thumping. Emma, huh… damn.
The afternoon sun slanted low as Charlie pushed into Iron Will Fight Club, the gym's pulse hitting him—bags thumping, ropes snapping, pads clacking in the MMA cage. He taped his hands, the wrap grounding him, and spotted Mike in the ring, gloves on, bouncing. "Back for more, stone man?" Mike grinned, chin faintly red from yesterday's cross. Charlie nodded, wild glint sparking. They geared up—headgear, mouthguard, gloves—and climbed in, the canvas creaking.
Mike came out fast, jabbing high—Charlie blocked, forearms firm, the thud counting toward Unbreakable Body. A hook grazed his ribs, a jab clipped his headgear—5, 10, 15 hits. Charlie answered, jabs snapping, wrist twisting palm-down, a cross driving through with a pivot. Mike opened with a double jab, a cross stinging Charlie's cheek—20, 25. Sweat beaded, bruises screamed faintly, but he held his guard, taking 30, 35, 40 by the third round, muscles burning, breath ragged. The System chimed: Hits received: 40 (28 direct, 12 blocked). Total: 119/1,000.
Jhon called them for a group routine, a dozen fighters spread across the gym. "Shadow-box—100 jabs, move your feet!" Charlie fell in, throwing crisp jabs, step-sliding, knees bent, never crossing his stance. Jhon prowled, barking, "Your feet, Charlie—right foot up! Don't just take hits, fight back!" Charlie nodded, chaining a jab-cross-hook, hips twisting, motions tighter than weeks ago. He wasn't just a punching bag; to hit Boxing 3 Stars, he needed to strike, grow. Sweat poured, the gym's rhythm driving him—bags, pads, shouts blending into one pulse, Stamina Surge fueling him through.
After the drill, Charlie approached Rick, stacking weights. "Where's the jiu-jitsu trainer?" Rick grunted, not looking up. "Rodrigo? Surgery, back next week." Before Charlie could reply, Diego sauntered over, scarred hands loose, grinning. "Forget that—come with me. MMA's the game." He tossed Charlie 4-ounce MMA gloves—scuffed, lighter than boxing ones. "These'll work—keep 'em." Charlie caught them, nodding, and followed Diego to the cage, the gym's hum fading behind.
Diego's class was small—six fighters, mats spread wide. "Stance first," Diego said, planting his feet. "Feet apart, knees bent, chin down—your fortress." Charlie mimicked, orthodox, but his chin drifted—Diego tapped it. "Lower, or you're eating punches." Next, jab-cross: "You know this—jab sets up, cross hits hard." Charlie threw against Diego's pad—jab snapping, cross pivoting, Boxing 2 Stars shining. Diego nodded. "Solid. Now we go low." He showed a single-leg takedown: "Deep step, forehead to chest, grab the knee, lift, turn." Charlie tried on a grappling dummy—stepped in but didn't sink low, tipping it. Diego shook his head. "Lower—hips, not arms." Second try, Charlie dropped, pressed his forehead to the dummy's chest, gripped the knee, and swept it down clean. Diego clapped. "That's it!" Third try, smoother, and the System chimed: MMA 1 Star gained—basic proficiency achieved. Charlie grinned, sweat dripping, as Diego stepped back, nodding seriously. "Sparring with Mike, Jhon's drills, now my class—you've got lungs of steel."
Charlie trudged home, Friday's dusk deep and cool, bruises pulsing but his step light. Hunger roared, and he hit the kitchen, pulling cauliflower, cheddar, and spices—time for something fresh. He chopped florets, tossed them in olive oil, salt, and pepper, and spread them on a tray, grating cheddar thickly over top. The oven hummed at 400°F, the kitchen filling with a nutty, cheesy aroma as the florets crisped golden. He plated three servings, cheese bubbling, and called his parents. Marge smiled, Harold dug in. "Damn, son, this is good," he said, mouth full. Marge nodded, eyes warm. The System chimed: Cooking task complete. +$100. Balance: $11,050.
Charlie took a breath, reaching into his pocket. He slid an envelope across—$3,000 in cash, System money. "Take this," he said, voice firm. "Go on a weekend trip—somewhere nice." Marge's eyes widened. "No, Charlie, we can't—" Harold cut in, "Keep that, son!" Charlie shook his head, leaning forward. "This summer, I earned enough to stand on my own—school's good, I'm doing good. This is my thank-you for raising me." Marge's protest faltered, her eyes softening; Harold's jaw tightened, proud. They took it, hands hesitant, and Charlie smiled, the act of giving lighter than any punch. Dinner wound down, and he cleared the plates, their nods warming him.
In his basement, he opened his laptop, pulling up a sports site—grappling dummies, heavy-duty. He picked one, $150, clicking buy. Balance: $10,900. Gonna train like Diego, he thought. He shut the laptop, climbed into bed, and grinned. "Another night without that brutal ring." Sleep hit fast, soft and full, carrying him into Saturday.