Mikey sat at his desk in math class, trying to focus on equations he didn't care about. Numbers blurred together. Xs and Ys danced across the page like code from a world he didn't live in.
He had something else on his mind.
The moment Jason backed down.
The way people looked at him differently in the hallway.
The whisper he overheard from Jamal that morning:
> "That's the kid who stood up to Jason."
Not a rumor. A statement.
It didn't make Mikey feel like a hero. It made him feel seen.
For the first time in a long time.
---
After school, he met Alyssa outside the gym. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, holding a flyer.
Before Mikey could say anything, she slapped it against his chest.
He looked down.
"Iron City Youth Fight Night – Novice Division"
"First-time fighters welcome. Must register by Friday."
His heart skipped.
"You should do it," Alyssa said.
Mikey blinked. "I've never fought for real. Not a match. Just sparring."
"Exactly. This is the next step," she said. "Controlled. Safe. You'll be matched with someone your level. You won't win. Probably. But that's not the point."
Mikey hesitated. "So what is the point?"
Alyssa looked him dead in the eye.
> "To stop being afraid of the ring."
---
That night, Mikey barely slept.
He stared at the flyer for hours. Folded it. Unfolded it. Turned it over like it would reveal something if he looked long enough.
What if I get hurt?
What if I freeze?
What if I embarrass myself?
But deeper still came another voice—quiet, but firm:
> "What if you don't?"
---
The next day, he signed up.
Name, age, weight class: Featherweight.
Experience level: None.
Emergency contact: His mom.
He handed in the form, heart thudding. Alyssa grinned.
"Three weeks," she said. "Let's get to work."
---
Training changed.
No more soft drills. Alyssa was relentless now—sharpening his footwork, tightening his guard, drilling combinations until he couldn't lift his arms. She brought in other fighters to spar with him—faster, stronger, more aggressive.
Mikey took hits.
Hard ones.
He bled once.
But he got up every time.
He was learning not just how to fight—but how to take pain without panic.
And he started to crave the rhythm of it.
---
Then came the twist.
Jason found out.
Mikey was walking through the back hall when he heard it.
"Hey, Champ."
He turned. Jason stood at the end of the corridor, arms folded, grin sharp.
"Word is you're fighting in that rookie ring."
Mikey didn't respond.
Jason stepped closer. "You really think that makes you tough?"
Mikey kept his eyes steady. "It makes me better than I was."
Jason's smile faded. Just a flicker. But it was there.
"You get dropped, I'll be watching," Jason said. "Bet on that."
Mikey didn't flinch. "Then watch closely."
He walked past him.
Didn't look back.
---
That night, he didn't train at the gym.
He trained in the rain.
Shadowboxing under the streetlight, soaked through, his breath fogging in the cold. His arms ached. His legs burned. But his eyes burned brighter.
This was happening.
He was stepping into the ring.
For real.
Not for revenge.
Not for respect.
Not even for Jason.
But for the version of himself he was becoming.
One punch at a time.