"You dead in there, kid? Clock's ticking." "You dead in there, kid? Clock's ticking."
Coach Ruud's voice rattled the bathroom door like thunder. Marcus took one last look at his reflection—sixteen years old, an unmarked face, eyes still bright with hope, untainted by the weight of defeat.
It was time to discover if the System was real or if he was losing his mind.
He stepped out, breathing shallowly. The gym hit him like a wave of memories and sensations. Rope skipping in perfect rhythm. Heavy bags are absorbing punishment. The sharp crack of speed bags mingling with grunts and shouts.
Everything was just as he remembered it, yet somehow smaller. The ceiling felt lower, and the ring seemed closer. It was like seeing his childhood home through adult eyes, except he was the child again.
Faces drifted past—half-recognized from a life that hadn't happened yet. Kids who would grow up to be contenders, journeymen, trainers. Some would quit before they turned eighteen. All of them were young, hungry, and convinced they were destined for greatness.
Just like he had been.
Ruud waved him over, impatience etched on his features. The coach looked so young that it made Marcus's chest tighten. Brown hair where gray should be. A straight posture instead of the slight hunch from years of leaning over fighters.
"Back already? Didn't even break the seal properly, did you?"
Marcus said nothing, just nodded, his eyes fixed on the canvas. Words felt dangerous right now. It was too easy to slip up and say something that would give him away.
How do you explain that you remember the future? Do you know this man will spend ten years believing in you before finally giving up? Have you disappointed him in ways he can't imagine?
"Yo, newbie. Don't fold this time, yeah?"
Jamal Demir bounced near the ring, gloves already on, that cocky grin splitting his face. Marcus's breath caught. God, he looked so young. Fifteen years old and convinced the world belonged to him.
In Marcus's timeline, Jamal had become his greatest rival. They'd fought three times as amateurs, split the series, then gone different directions as pros. Jamal had made it further—European title, a couple of big fights, decent money before retiring with his brain intact.
Everything Marcus should have been.
But this Jamal was just a kid. Talented, sure, but raw. Unpolished. Marcus had twenty-six years of experience to draw from. He'd seen every style, every trick, every dirty move in the book.
"Don't worry," Marcus said, allowing himself a faint smirk. "I won't."
Something in his voice made Jamal's grin falter for just a second. Then it returned, brighter than before.
"Alright then. Let's see what you got."
They climbed into the ring. Marcus pulled on the house gloves—old, worn leather that smelled like sweat and dreams. The canvas felt different under his feet—springier. His body felt lighter, quicker to respond.
The simulation had been prepared. This was the test.
Jamal opened the box with light jabs, tested the range, and checked rifle-standard, the feeling-out process Marcus had experienced a thousand times.
But this time, he knew what to do with it.
Marcus took a deep breath and lifted his gloves. His shoulders were hunched, his elbows were high, and his chin was tucked behind his left shoulder. Classic Peek-a-Boo form, just like the System had drilled into him.
Jamal blinked. "Eh?"
The stance felt natural now. Not perfect—his footwork was still clumsy, his timing slightly off. But the foundation was there. Solid. Unshakeable.
Ruud squinted from the ringside, arms folded. "He's new. Who the hell taught him that stance?"
A few of the other kids stopped what they were doing to watch. Marcus could feel their eyes on him, curious and skeptical. The new kid with the unusual guard and quiet confidence.
Jamal probed with a left hook, looking for an opening in the tight defense. Glove met elbow with a sharp crack. Marcus absorbed the impact, adjusted his position, and stayed calm.
The System's training was holding up.
"Not bad," Jamal muttered, picking up the tempo.
He started mixing in body shots, trying to break down the guard from below. A solid right hand crashed into Marcus's ribs, doubling him over. Pain flared through his torso, but he stayed upright.
This was where the old Marcus would have panicked, swinging wildly and abandoning technique for desperation.
Instead, he adjusted.
Slip. Weave. Let the punch slide past, step inside, fire back. A right cross caught Jamal on the temple, snapping his head to the side.
The gym went quiet for a heartbeat.
Ruud straightened. "You sure this is your first gym?"
Marcus just breathed, refocused. His body was screaming at him—ribs aching, lungs burning, muscles not quite ready for this level of work. But his mind was clear. Twenty-six years of experience distilled into pure instinct.
Jamal's eyes narrowed. No more testing. No more games.
He came forward hard, throwing combinations that would have overwhelmed most beginners. Left hook to the body, right hand upstairs, left hook again. Fast, fluid, dangerous.
Marcus parried the head shot, absorbed the body work, and found his opening. Jamal's right hand had been a little wild, leaving him off-balance for a split second.
Marcus stepped in and threw a short uppercut.
It caught Jamal flush on the chin.
The Turkish kid's eyes went wide. His legs wobbled. He stumbled backward, gloves dropping instinctively to protect his body.
Marcus didn't follow up. He just reset to his stance, breathing hard but controlled.
"Shit," someone whispered from ringside.
Jamal shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. When he looked at Marcus again, his expression was different—not anger, not respect.
"You hit like someone who's been doing this a while."
Marcus wiped sweat from his forehead. "Just watching closely."
They went at it again. This time, Jamal was more careful and technical. But Marcus could see the patterns now. The tells. The way Jamal dropped his right hand a fraction when he threw the left hook. The way he leaned forward when he was about to throw power shots.
All the bad habits that would take him years to break.
Marcus baited a wide swing, ducked low, and entered the arc. His right hand found Jamal's solar plexus like a guided missile.
Jamal dropped to one knee, breath whooshing out of him in a painful gasp.
The ref—one of the older fighters who helped Ruud run sessions—stepped between them. Not a knockout, but close enough. The round was over.
Marcus backed off, not gloating. Just professional. The way he'd learned to be after years of wins and losses that didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.
But this one felt different. This one mattered.
Jamal climbed out of the ring slowly, still catching his breath. No hard feelings, though. That was one thing Marcus had always liked about him—even as a kid, he could take his lumps.
"You're alright, rookie."
Ruud called Marcus over as the other kids dispersed. The coach's expression was unreadable—part curiosity, part suspicion, part something that might have been excitement.
"Peek-a-boo, huh? That's no beginner style."
Marcus shrugged, trying to appear casual. "Saw it on TV."
"TV doesn't teach you to slip punches like that." Ruud's eyes were sharp, evaluating. "Keep moving like that, and we'll see if you're the real deal."
The real deal. If only he knew.
Marcus nodded, hiding how wrecked his body felt. His ribs ached where Jamal had tagged him. His shoulders burned from holding the high guard. His legs felt like jelly.
But beneath the pain was something else. Something he hadn't felt in years.
The gym gradually emptied as evening approached. Kids headed home for dinner, homework, and everyday teenage lives. Marcus stayed behind, with the heavy bags and the echo of his heartbeat.
He walked to a quiet corner and began to shadow box.
Silently. Focused. Guard up, elbows in. Left-right slips, head movement, and controlled breathing. The Peek-a-Boo rhythm flowed through him like music.pa
His body protested every movement. Young muscles that weren't used to this kind of work. But there was potential here. Raw material that could be shaped into something special.
The System had given him the foundation; now, he had to build on it.
Slip, weave, counter. The combinations flowed smoother and more naturally now. They are not perfect—that would take time—but they are good enough to work with.
Good enough to hope.
A soft chime echoed in his skull, and text appeared in his peripheral vision. Transparent, visible only to him.
Coach Ruud's voice rattled the bathroom door like thunder. Marcus took one last look at his reflection—sixteen years old, unmarked face, eyes that hadn't learned to expect defeat yet.
Time to find out if the System was real or if he was losing his mind.
He stepped out, breathing shallow. The gym hit him like a wave of memory and sensation. Rope skipping in perfect rhythm. Heavy bags taking punishment. The sharp crack of speed bags mixing with grunts and shouts.
Everything was exactly as he remembered, but smaller somehow. The ceiling lower. The ring closer. Like seeing childhood home through adult eyes, except he was the child again.
Faces drifted past—half-recognized from a life that hadn't happened yet. Kids who would grow up to be contenders, journeymen, trainers. Some who would quit before they turned eighteen. All of them young and hungry and convinced they were destined for greatness.
Just like he'd been.
Ruud waved him over, impatience written across his features. The coach looked so young it made Marcus's chest tight. Brown hair where gray should be. Straight posture instead of the slight hunch that came from decades of leaning over fighters.
"Back already? Didn't even break the seal properly, did you?"
Marcus said nothing. Just nodded, eyes on the canvas. Words felt dangerous right now. Too easy to slip up, to say something that would give him away.
How do you explain that you remember the future? That you know this man will spend the next ten years believing in you before finally giving up? That you've already disappointed him in ways he can't imagine?
"Yo, newbie. Don't fold this time, yeah?"
Jamal Demir bounced near the ring, gloves already on, that cocky grin splitting his face. Marcus's breath caught. God, he looked so young. Fifteen years old and convinced the world belonged to him.
In Marcus's timeline, Jamal had become his greatest rival. They'd fought three times as amateurs, split the series, then gone different directions as pros. Jamal had made it further—European title, couple of big fights, decent money before retiring with his brain intact.
Everything Marcus should have been.
But this Jamal was just a kid. Talented, sure, but raw. Unpolished. Marcus had twenty-six years of experience to draw from. He'd seen every style, every trick, every dirty move in the book.
"Don't worry," Marcus said, allowing himself a faint smirk. "I won't."
Something in his voice made Jamal's grin falter for just a second. Then it was back, brighter than before.
"Alright then. Let's see what you got."
They climbed into the ring. Marcus pulled on the house gloves—old, worn leather that smelled like sweat and dreams. The canvas felt different under his feet. Springier. His body was lighter, faster to respond.
The simulation had been preparation. This was the test.
Jamal opened with light jabs. Testing range, checking reflexes. Standard stuff. The kind of feeling-out process Marcus had experienced a thousand times.
But this time, he knew what to do with it.
Marcus breathed deep and lifted his gloves. Shoulders hunched, elbows high, chin tucked behind his left shoulder. Classic Peek-a-Boo form, just like the System had drilled into him.
Jamal blinked. "Eh?"
The stance felt natural now. Not perfect—his footwork was still clumsy, his timing off by fractions of seconds. But the foundation was there. Solid. Unshakeable.
Ruud squinted from ringside, arms folded. "He's new. Who the hell taught him that stance?"
A few of the other kids stopped what they were doing to watch. Marcus could feel their eyes on him, curious and skeptical. The new kid with the weird guard and the quiet confidence.
Jamal probed with a left hook, looking for an opening in the tight defense. Glove met elbow with a sharp crack. Marcus absorbed the impact, adjusted his position, stayed calm.
The System's training was holding up.
"Not bad," Jamal muttered, picking up the tempo.
He started mixing in body shots, trying to break down the guard from below. A solid right hand crashed into Marcus's ribs, doubling him over. Pain flared through his torso, but he stayed upright.
This was where the old Marcus would have panicked. Started swinging wild, abandoning technique for desperation.
Instead, he adjusted.
Slip. Weave. Let the punch slide past, step inside, fire back. A right cross caught Jamal on the temple, snapping his head to the side.
The gym went quiet for a heartbeat.
Ruud straightened. "You sure this is your first gym?"
Marcus just breathed, refocused. His body was screaming at him—ribs aching, lungs burning, muscles not quite ready for this level of work. But his mind was clear. Twenty-six years of experience distilled into pure instinct.
Jamal's eyes narrowed. No more testing. No more games.
He came forward hard, throwing combinations that would have overwhelmed most beginners. Left hook to the body, right hand upstairs, left hook again. Fast, fluid, dangerous.
Marcus parried the head shot, absorbed the body work, found his opening. Jamal's right hand had been a little wild, leaving him off-balance for a split second.
Marcus stepped in and threw a short uppercut.
It caught Jamal flush on the chin.
The Turkish kid's eyes went wide. His legs wobbled. He stumbled backward, gloves dropping instinctively to protect his body.
Marcus didn't follow up. Just reset to his stance, breathing hard but controlled.
"Shit," someone whispered from ringside.
Jamal shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. When he looked at Marcus again, there was something different in his expression. Not anger. Respect.
"You hit like someone who's been doing this a while."
Marcus wiped sweat from his forehead. "Just watching closely."
They went at it again. This time Jamal was more careful, more technical. But Marcus could see the patterns now. The tells. The way Jamal dropped his right hand a fraction when he threw the left hook. The way he leaned forward when he was about to throw power shots.
All the bad habits that would take him years to break.
Marcus baited a wide swing, ducked low, came up inside the arc. His right hand found Jamal's solar plexus like a guided missile.
Jamal dropped to one knee, breath whooshing out of him in a painful gasp.
The ref—one of the older fighters who helped Ruud run sessions—stepped between them. Not a knockout, but close enough. The round was over.
Marcus backed off, not gloating. Just professional. The way he'd learned to be after years of wins and losses that didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.
But this one felt different. This one mattered.
Jamal climbed out of the ring slowly, still catching his breath. No hard feelings, though. That was one thing Marcus had always liked about him—even as a kid, he could take his lumps.
"You're alright, rookie."
Ruud called Marcus over as the other kids dispersed. The coach's expression was unreadable—part curiosity, part suspicion, part something that might have been excitement.
"Peek-a-boo, huh? That's no beginner style."
Marcus shrugged, trying to look casual. "Saw it on TV."
"TV doesn't teach you to slip punches like that." Ruud's eyes were sharp, evaluating. "Keep moving like that, we'll see if you're the real deal."
The real deal. If only he knew.
Marcus nodded, hiding how wrecked his body felt. His ribs ached where Jamal had tagged him. His shoulders burned from holding the high guard. His legs felt like jelly.
But underneath the pain was something else. Something he hadn't felt in years.
The gym gradually emptied as evening approached. Kids heading home for dinner, homework, normal teenage lives. Marcus stayed behind, alone with the heavy bags and the echo of his own heartbeat.
He walked to a quiet corner and began to shadow box.
Silently. Focused. Guard up, elbows in. Left-right slips, head movement, controlled breathing. The Peek-a-Boo rhythm flowing through him like music.
His body protested every movement. Young muscles that weren't used to this kind of work. But there was potential here. Raw material that could be shaped into something special.
The System had given him the foundation. Now he had to build on it.
Slip. Weave. Counter. The combinations flowed smoother now, more natural. Not perfect—that would take time—but good enough to work with.
Good enough to hope.
A soft chime echoed in his skull, and text appeared in his peripheral vision. Transparent, visible only to him.
───────── SYSTEM UPDATE ──────────
[Daily Mission Complete]
— Shadow Box x3 Rounds ✔
Penalty Avoided
Style: Peek-a-Boo +4 Progress
→ Current Mastery: 4/10 (Level 1)
Note: To improve style mastery, apply in live sparring and real combat conditions.
───────────────────────────────
Marcus finished his last combination, sweat dripping onto the canvas. Four out of ten. Not great, but progress. The System tracked everything, measuring his development in ways no human coach could.
But it was still just data. Numbers on a screen. What truly mattered was how it felt when Jamal's punch missed his chin by inches. How it felt when his own counter landed clean.
How it felt to win.
The gym door creaked open again. Marcus turned, expecting to see one of the kids who had forgotten something.
Instead, Ruud leaned against the doorframe, his eyes unreadable in the dim light.
"Be here tomorrow. Earlier. Let's see what else you've got, 'rookie."