(Matt's POV)
Convincing my mother to let me take self-defense classes proved to be a far more delicate operation than I had initially anticipated.
Elizabeth O'Neil was, by every definition, a loving and fiercely protective parent. But she was also a practical woman who kept a sharp eye on our family budget.
Channel 6 was paying her better now that she was a full-time journalist, but in a city as notoriously expensive as New York, every dollar had its designated place.
Throwing extra cash at martial arts lessons for a ten-year-old boy wasn't exactly at the top of her monthly priority list.
It called for a tactical approach.
"Mom," I began one evening over a dinner of homemade meatloaf and mash, laying down my fork with deliberate care. "I've been thinking about joining a gym or a studio after school."
Mom paused, her mug halfway to her mouth, and blinked at me. "A gym, sweetie? You're ten. Most kids your age are asking for video games or sports cards."
"I know," I replied smoothly, adopting the most earnest, mature expression a ten-year-old could manage. "But with April in high school and you working late shifts at the station, I want to make sure I can pull my own weight. New York isn't getting any quieter, Mom. Plus, it's good discipline. It'll keep me healthy and focused."
April, who was sitting across from me, looked up from her geometry textbook with an amused glint in her green eyes. "Since when are you worried about discipline, little bro? Yesterday you tried to convince me that sleeping twelve hours a day was essential for cognitive growth."
"That was scientifically backed, big sis," I shot back without missing a beat. "And secondary to the point."
Mom chuckled softly, though her expression quickly softened into thoughtful concern. "Mathew, sweetie, I love that you're thinking about responsibility, but traditional dojos and boxing gyms can get very pricey. And some of those places in the lower borough aren't exactly ideal environments for young kids."
"I checked already," I said, pulling out a small folded piece of lined paper from my pocket. I had spent three days asking around the neighborhood and looking through public bulletin boards. "There's an old boxing and martial arts hall three blocks from my elementary school. The owner runs community youth classes twice a week. It's cheap, legit, and the instructor used to train amateur golden gloves contenders."
Mom took the note, reviewing the handwritten details with a critical eye. After a long moment of silence, she looked up, a warm, proud smile gracing her lips.
"Alright," she murmured, reaching over to ruffle my hair. "If your grades stay up and you don't use what you learn to start trouble at school, we can try it out for a month."
Hook, line, and sinker.
************
The following Monday, I officially stepped into Fogwell's Gym—a legendary location in its own right for anyone who knew their Marvel lore.
The place smelled strongly of sweat, worn leather, floor wax, and dry chalk. The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of speed bags echoed against the high brick walls, punctuated by the heavy, dull thuds of boxers working the leather bags suspended from steel beams. It was rough, loud, and delightfully authentic.
My instructor for the youth hybrid class was an elderly, grizzled man named Sal. He had calloused hands, a broken nose that had healed crooked, and eyes that had seen far too many rounds in the ring.
"Alright, kid," Sal barked, sizing me up as I stood on the canvas mat in my plain gray workout shirt. "You look like a breeze could blow you over. First rule here: balance is everything. If you can't stand firm, you can't hit, and you sure as hell can't dodge."
*************
For the next two months, Sal didn't even let me throw a real punch. Instead, my routine consisted of endless jump-rope sets, footwork drills, stance adjustments, and core strengthening.
While the other kids in the class complained about the monotony, I threw myself into it with absolute obsession.
In my past life, being blind had taught me to perceive physical space through weight distribution, sound reverberation, and air pressure.
Now, with fully functional eyesight combined with my prior spatial intuition, my body absorbed the mechanics of footwork at a frightening speed.
I learned how to shift my center of gravity before a blow even connected, how to read an opponent's shoulder alignment, and how to stay light on the balls of my feet.
Sal noticed. By the third month, his grumpy demeanor shifted into quiet approval.
"You've got weird instincts, kid," Sal remarked one afternoon, watching me slide under a heavy bag as it swung toward my face, missing my nose by a fraction of an inch. "Most kids flinch or turn their heads. You move like you already know where the bag is going before it gets there."
"What can I say? I have good spatial awareness, coach," I replied, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist.
"Of course you do. Keep at it," he grunted, tossing me a water bottle. "You might actually turn out to be something."
While my afternoons were spent sweating out my soul at Fogwell's Gym, my mornings were consumed by the glorious chaos of public elementary school.
And that brings us back to Foggy Nelson.
Having Foggy as a best friend was an experience in itself. The kid was a walking bundle of nervous energy, loyalty, and an unquenchable passion for junk food.
***********
"I'm telling you, Matt," Foggy declared dramatically, shoving a handful of cheese puffs into his mouth during lunch recess. "My dad says the whole city is going to belong to Fisk Enterprise in five years. They're buying up real estate like it's going out of style! Hell's Kitchen, Midtown, the Docks... everything!"
I chewed on my sandwich, listening intently. Hearing Wilson Fisk's name come out of a ten-year-old Foggy Nelson's mouth was still deeply surreal, but I kept my cool.
"Fisk is just a businessman, Foggy," I said casually, playing dumb. "Rich guys buy buildings. That's what they do."
"No, man, it's not just buildings!" Foggy leaned in, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "Some of the older guys in my neighborhood say he's connected to the mob. Like, real underground stuff. My dad also told me to stay away from any construction sites bearing the Fisk crest."
A wise advice, Mr. Nelson, I thought to myself.
"Well, lucky for us, we're ten," I chuckled, patting him on the shoulder. "We don't have to worry about corporate tycoons or mob bosses. We just have to survive the fifth-grade math test on Friday."
Foggy's face instantly paled, the cheese puff slipping from his fingers. "Oh God. The math test. I forgot! Matt, tell me you'll let me study with you tomorrow! My mom will murder me if I get another C-minus!"
"Relax, buddy," I smiled. "Come over to my place after school tomorrow. April can help us. She's practically a human calculator."
"Your sister is an angel," Foggy gasped in sheer relief. "A brilliant, scary angel."
As the months rolled on, my life established a steady, rhythmic pattern. School with Foggy by day, grueling martial arts and boxing conditioning by afternoon, and quiet evenings at home with Mom and April.
Yet, deep down, I knew this peace was temporary.