The gym smelled like sweat, blood, and something electric. The kind of tension that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.
Word had spread. Dez was going to spar with the rookie. The zero. And people loved blood more than technique.Even the heavy bags were left swinging alone while everyone circled the ring, waiting for the car crash to happen.
Blaze stood in the corner, rolling his shoulders, gloves taped up tight, mouthguard biting into his teeth. His heart wasn't pounding—it was thundering. But fear wasn't what he felt.
It was focus. Raw. Ugly. Sharp like broken glass.
Dez stood across from him, grinning. No headgear. No warmup. Just muscle, experience, and bad intentions.
"You ready to die pretty, rookie?" Dez said through his grin.
Blaze didn't answer.
Mason leaned in from the ropes, eyes hard. "Protect yourself. Move. Don't get brave—get smart."
Then: DING.
No bell. Just Rico slapping a wrench against a post, cheap and loud.
The first punch came fast.
A jab, sharp as a snakebite, cracking across Blaze's cheek. He stumbled, gloves up too late, head snapping sideways. The crowd oohed.
Then came the hook—BOOM—catching Blaze in the ribs, knocking the air out of his lungs like a hammer to a tire.
Blaze staggered. His legs wanted to fold.
Dez didn't let up. "Thought you were different, huh?"
Another shot, right to the temple. Stars. Noise. Sweat flying.
This was a beating, not a spar.
But somewhere in the noise, in the ache behind his eyes, Blaze remembered:
"Don't fight the punch. Move with it."
Step. Slide. Pivot.
Blaze dipped under the next right hook—not by skill, but by desperation—and felt Dez's glove whoosh past his ear.
For the first time, Dez missed.
Blaze swung back. Wild. Ugly. Clumsy—but it connected.
His fist cracked against Dez's jaw. It wasn't much. It wasn't elegant. But it was something.
And the crowd? Silent for half a second.
Dez's grin faltered. Just a flicker. Just enough to see the anger underneath.
Now it was personal.
Blaze took another beating in the next minute. Body shots like hammers. Gloves popping his headgear sideways. But he didn't go down.
Step. Slide. Pivot.
He was learning during the beating. Adapting. Ugly footwork, but it kept him standing.
Finally, Mason barked, "That's enough!"
Dez kept swinging. One more shot—a hard right, straight to Blaze's jaw—sent him crashing to the canvas. His vision flickered black, red, black again.
The crowd murmured. Rico laughed. Mason climbed into the ring, grabbing Dez by the shoulder and yanking him back.
"That's it," Mason snapped.
Dez wiped his nose, sneered, and climbed out of the ring like a king who just executed a traitor.
Blaze lay there, breathing hard, blood dripping from his lip.
But here's the thing:He was smiling.
A cracked, bloody grin. Not because he won.But because he didn't break.
I'm still here.