"Begin. Manual—Peek-a-Boo. Guard high, chin tucked."
The System's voice cut through the void like a blade, flat and urgent. Marcus blinked, and the endless colorless space around him shifted. The simulation ring materialized fully now, ropes gleaming under light that came from nowhere.
His opponent was already there.
Faceless. Ageless. Built like a heavyweight but moving with the fluid grace of someone half that size. The figure wore classic boxing trunks and gloves, but where his face should have been was only smooth, pale skin. No eyes, no mouth, no expression.
Just pure, clinical technique.
The thing settled into a perfect Peek-a-Boo stance—gloves high, elbows tight to the body, chin tucked behind the left shoulder. Mike Tyson's signature style, but executed with mechanical precision that made Marcus's skin crawl.
Sweat prickled across his shoulders despite the cold that seemed to seep from the void around them. His arms felt heavy, uncertain. This young body didn't know how to carry itself yet. Every instinct screamed danger, but his muscles were still learning how to listen.
The faceless boxer attacked.
A sharp jab snapped forward, followed by a quick bob and weave. Marcus lifted his guard on instinct, but his old muscle memory clashed with his teenage body's limitations. The first jab caught him flush on the forehead, snapping his head back. Before he could reset, another one split his guard and tagged his nose.
Blood spattered across the colorless canvas.
"Guard low. Correct form."
The System's voice was ice-cold criticism wrapped in electronic precision. Marcus gritted his teeth, planted his feet, and tried to mimic what he was seeing. The Peek-a-Boo stance felt foreign—too tight, too defensive. He was used to fighting tall, using his reach.
But this body was different. Shorter. Stockier. Built for pressure, not distance.
He managed a decent block on the next combination, slipping left just enough to avoid the worst of it. Pride flared in his chest—maybe he could figure this out. Maybe the System could actually teach him something.
The opponent shifted angles and drove a perfect hook into his exposed ribs.
Air rushed out of Marcus's lungs. He doubled over, gasping, the pain spreading through his torso like fire. The faceless thing reset to its stance, waiting with mechanical patience for him to recover.
"You call that Peek-a-Boo?"
The sarcasm in the System's voice landed harder than any punch. Marcus straightened, frustration and shame roiling in his gut. He'd been a professional fighter for six years. He'd taken punishment from men who could crack concrete with their fists. He wasn't going to be schooled by some computer program.
He swung wild.
The hook missed by inches. The faceless opponent slipped the punch with minimal effort, stepped inside, and delivered a textbook body shot that folded Marcus in half. He dropped to one knee, retching, his knuckles scraping against the canvas.
The pain felt exactly like real life. Every nerve, every ache, every burning sensation in his lungs. But that wasn't what made him sick.
It was the déjà vu.
He'd been here before. Different ring, different opponent, same result. Getting beaten down by someone better, faster, more talented. The only difference was the age on his face and the number of losses on his record.
Marcus pushed himself upright, legs shaking. His vision flickered, and for a moment the simulation glitched.
The faceless opponent became Brian "The Ox" Wilmer, grinning through his mouthpiece as he stalked forward. Then it shifted to Roy "The Hammer" van Vliet from the Glory Boxing Academy, all arrogance and perfect technique. Then to Ivan "The Prodigy" Sokolov, mechanically precise and utterly unbeatable.
"Focus, Marcus!"
Ruud's voice echoed from somewhere beyond the ropes, but when Marcus looked, the void stretched endlessly in all directions. Past and present were bleeding together, leaving him rattled and desperate.
The faceless thing advanced again.
"Ten seconds. Survive."
The countdown began in his head, electronic and merciless. Ten... nine... eight...
Marcus backpedaled, throwing punches without purpose or plan. Wild swings that caught nothing but air. The opponent closed distance with every step, methodical as a machine.
Seven... six... five...
A right hand grazed Marcus's temple. He stumbled, caught his balance, threw a desperate uppercut that whiffed completely. The counterpunch caught him on the jaw, rattling his teeth.
Four... three... two...
Marcus planted his feet and threw everything he had left. A flurry of punches, most blocked, some landing on arms and shoulders. He caught a right hand on his gloves, slipped a left hook, ate another body shot that made his knees buckle.
One...
The bell rang in his skull.
The faceless opponent stepped back, lowering its gloves. The simulation ring began to fade, colors bleeding away like watercolors in rain. Marcus collapsed to his knees, gasping, sweat stinging his eyes.
The void dissolved around him.
Cold tile pressed against his shins. Harsh fluorescent light buzzed overhead. The smell of industrial cleaner and old pipes filled his nostrils.
He was back in the bathroom.
Marcus crawled to the mirror, pulling himself up on shaking arms. His reflection stared back—sixteen years old, fresh-faced, but with a new red mark blooming across his left cheek. Proof that the pain had been real.
His hands trembled as he touched the spot. The ache throbbed under his fingers, sharp and immediate.
SYSTEM MESSAGE RECEIVED
The text appeared in his vision, floating over his reflection like a ghostly overlay.
Manual unlocked. Peek-a-Boo basics—Level 1. Return to gym for real-world application.
Training session complete. Skills require physical practice to develop. Virtual learning supplements but cannot replace actual sparring.
Warning: Excessive simulation use without real-world application will result in skill degradation.
Marcus leaned against the sink, legs still weak. The System had given him something—he could feel it in the way his body wanted to move now. The Peek-a-Boo stance felt less foreign, more natural. But it was just the beginning.
A foundation built on virtual pain and electronic instruction.
The bathroom door rattled.
"You dead in there, kid? Get out, we're waiting."
Coach Ruud's voice carried through the thin wood, impatient and familiar. Young Ruud, who didn't yet know that Marcus Dorsey would become his greatest disappointment. Who still believed in potential and second chances and all the beautiful lies that made boxing worth pursuing.
Marcus looked at his hands in the mirror. No scars. No calluses. Just smooth skin and the faint red marks from blocking punches that existed only in simulation.
But the knowledge was there. Buried in muscle memory that his young body was still learning to access. Twenty-six years of experience crammed into a sixteen-year-old frame, guided by a System that promised everything and guaranteed nothing.
His eyes met their reflection. Fear stared back, mixed with something harder and brighter.
Fire.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
Opportunity comes with risk, Marcus. Are you ready to fight for it?
The question hung in the air like a challenge. Outside the door, he could hear the gym coming alive. Bags being hit, ropes being skipped, teenagers trading insults and dreams with equal enthusiasm.
His old life. His new chance.
Marcus clenched his fist, watching the muscles in his forearm tighten. Young muscles that hadn't yet learned to quit. A young heart that hadn't yet been broken by a thousand small defeats.
His pulse hammered against his wrist.
Ready or not, the new life was starting now.
And this time, he wasn't going to waste it.