"Then cry early. Saves us both time."
Marcus didn't look at Elroy when he said it. His eyes remained fixed on the bracket board, reading his own name next to his opponent's as if memorizing a prayer.
The words came out flat and calm, devoid of heat or teenage bravado—just a simple fact delivered like a weather report.
Elroy's gum stopped popping.
"What did you say?"
Marcus finally turned his head, meeting those mean little eyes with something colder.
"You heard me."
For a heartbeat, the alley fell dead silent. Elroy's face darkened, his scarred cheek twitching as if a nerve had been touched. His hands curled into fists.
But something in Marcus's stare made him hesitate—not fear—something more profound. Recognition, perhaps—like looking into the eyes of someone who had already seen the worst and walked away breathing.
Elroy scoffed, trying to play it off. He bumped Marcus's shoulder hard as he walked past.
"Two weeks, tough guy."
Marcus didn't react. He didn't turn to watch him leave. He stood in the empty alley, staring at the bracket through the gym window as if it held the universe's secrets.
Energy conservation. That's what this was. Every reaction, every emotion, every ounce of anger—all of it needed to be saved for the ring. Street confrontations were for amateurs who thought boxing was about proving something to random idiots in alleys.
Marcus had already proven everything he needed to prove. To himself. In a timeline that no longer existed.
He turned and walked home through Rotterdam's winding streets.
The night wind cut through his jacket, sharp and cold. The gray sky pressed down like a lid on the city. It was the same route he had taken in his earlier life, when walking these streets meant counting down to another beating, another humiliation.
Nothing attacked him this time.
No drunk teenagers looking for easy targets. No corner dealers testing his courage. Just empty sidewalks and the distant hum of traffic.
Change. Real change started small. It began with choosing different paths, words, and reactions to the same old triggers.
He thought about Elroy's threat, the bracket waiting on that wall, about two weeks to prepare for a fight that could change everything or end nothing.
In his earlier life, he would have spent those two weeks obsessing, lying awake at night, running scenarios, building up fear until it consumed him, turning preparation into self-destruction.
Not this time.
This time, he would train. He would improve. He would enter that ring with twenty-six years of experience crammed into sixteen-year-old bones.
And he would show Elroy Adams what crying really looked like.
Marcus pushed through his front door just as his phone buzzed with a text from a classmate about weekend plans. He deleted the text without reading it.
Those friendships belonged to the old Marcus—the one who had wasted years chasing approval from people who would forget his name the moment graduation ended.
He had better things to do now.
---
School the next morning felt like swimming through thick water.
Marcus arrived early, claimed a seat in the back corner, and watched his classmates filter in with their backpacks, energy drinks, and casual complaints about forgotten homework.
They were all kids, even though he was technically the same age.
"Alright, listen up." Ms. van Leeuwen clapped her hands for attention. "Group project time. Social studies. Research and presentation on post-war immigration to Rotterdam."
Groans rippled through the classroom. Marcus said nothing, just waited.
"Groups of four. I'm picking them, so don't even think about it."
More groans. Ms. van Leeuwen read names from her list, assembling teams with the ruthless efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times.
"Marcus Dorsey, Bas Kowalski, Rick Hendrix, and Sarah Chen."
Marcus's blood went cold.
Bas. His best friend from the first timeline. Brother, really. The kid who had stuck by him through early losses, embarrassing defeats, and the slow slide into irrelevance.
Until Marcus's obsession with boxing consumed everything else, training became more important than friendship, and Bas got tired of being ignored and found better company.
The breakdown had been ugly—accusations, hurt feelings, and bridges burned so thoroughly that seeing each other in the hallways became awkward.
All of that was still years away. Right now, Bas was just a loud, sarcastic fifteen-year-old with messy brown hair and a permanent grin.
"You still go here?" Bas dropped into the seat next to him, mock surprise written across his features. "Thought you'd transferred to some boxing academy or something."
Marcus nodded, not trusting his voice yet.
"Cat got your tongue? You used to never shut up."
The words hit harder than they should have. In his earlier life, Marcus had been the loud one—the class clown, attention seeker, desperate to be noticed by anyone who would listen.
"Just tired," Marcus said finally.
"From what? You barely do anything anymore."
Bas was fishing, looking for the friend he remembered—the one who used to crack jokes, start food fights, and get them both detention for laughing too loud.
That person was gone. Had died in a ring somewhere, choking on his own blood while forty strangers watched.
"We should focus on the project," Marcus said.
Bas blinked. "Seriously? It's a group project, man. We've got weeks."
"Better to start early."
"Okay, who are you and what did you do with Marcus?"
The question hung between them, loaded with confusion and hurt—the first cracks in a friendship that was doomed before it started.
Marcus didn't answer.
Class dragged on—notes about immigration patterns, economic impacts, and cultural integration. Marcus copied everything down mechanically while Bas threw paper balls at Rick and made Sarah laugh with whispered jokes.
Normal teenage behavior. The kind of Marcus had engaged in constantly during his first go-round.
Now it felt like watching children play.
The lunch bell released them into the hallways. Marcus headed for the cafeteria, planning to find a quiet corner and eat peacefully.
Bas caught up with him near the vending machines.
"Yo, hold up."
Marcus stopped and turned.
"You ghosted the boys, man. Just dipped." Bas's usual grin was nowhere to be found. "Erik keeps asking where you are. Kevin thinks you're mad at us or something."
Their old crew. Marcus remembered them—good kids, mostly. Erik with his terrible jokes. Kevin and his obsession with football statistics. Simple friendships are built on shared interests and adolescent humor.
"And honestly?" Bas stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You're acting brand new. Like you're not you."
How do you explain that you're not? That the person they remembered had failed at everything that mattered and died alone in a third-rate boxing match?
"I'm busy," Marcus said.
"With what?"
"Training."
"Training for what?"
Marcus met his eyes, seeing genuine concern there, real worry for a friend slipping away.
"For everything."
He walked off before Bas could respond.
The rest of the school day passed in a blur—classes, hallways, and teachers droning on about irrelevant subjects compared to the bracket waiting at De Haven.
When the final bell rang, Marcus was first out the door.
He picked Zara up from her elementary school, finding her waiting by the fence with paint on her fingers and a sharp look in her eyes.
"You're early," she said.
"So?"
"So you're never early. You okay?"
They started walking. Zara kept glancing at him, reading his mood like she always did.
"You're too quiet again," she said finally. "I can hear it."
"Hear what?"
"Your brain. Working too hard."
Despite everything, Marcus almost smiled. "Just think faster."
Zara laughed. The sound was bright and real, cutting through the gray afternoon like sunlight.
"That doesn't make sense."
"Sure it does. Think faster, worry less."
"Is that what you're doing?"
Good question. Was he? Or was he just carrying different worries now? Heavier ones, maybe, but fewer in number.
"Something like that."
They reached home to find their mother passed out on the couch, still in her scrubs, one arm hanging off the cushion, exhaustion written in every line of her body.
Marcus pulled a blanket over her and checked the fridge.
Nearly empty. Leftover rice, three eggs, and some wilted vegetables that might survive one more meal.
He got to work.
Fried rice wasn't complicated. Heat oil, scramble eggs, add rice and whatever vegetables haven't given up yet, season with soy sauce, and hope.
Zara sat on the kitchen floor while he cooked, homework spread around her like a paper fortress.
"It's burning," she said without looking up.
"It's not burning."
"Smells like burning."
Marcus turned down the heat. Maybe it was burning a little.
They ate on the floor together, backs against the kitchen cabinets. The rice was indeed slightly burned but edible. Zara picked out the crispy bits and pretended to complain.
"Next time I'm cooking," she announced.
"You're nine."
"So? I can work a stove."
"Mama would kill me."
"Only if she finds out."
Marcus looked at his little sister, wise beyond her years, carrying weight that shouldn't exist, making jokes to keep the darkness at bay.
In his earlier timeline, he had barely noticed her growing up. He is too wrapped up in his failures to see her become a fantastic human.
Not this time.
"Deal," he said. "But I supervise."
"Deal."
That night, Marcus didn't head to the gym. The thought crossed his mind—he could get in extra work, shadow box in the empty ring, obsess over technique until his brain fried.
Instead, he trained in his room.
He wrapped his hands with old cloth, the ritual as familiar as breathing. He dropped to do push-ups on the hardwood floor. He threw shadow punches before his window, watching his reflection move in the dark glass.
There is no music, no system window offering missions and rewards, just movement and the steady rhythm of work.
He thought about pain. It used to mean failure in his earlier life. Every ache, every bruise, every moment of exhaustion had been evidence that he wasn't good enough—that the universe was punishing him for having the audacity to dream.
Pain meant change, growth, and progress, which were measured in sore muscles and calloused hands.
The difference was everything.
Marcus finished his routine and put away his wraps. Outside his window, neighborhood kids were hanging around the street corner, voices carrying on the night air.
"—dropped him like a sack of cement—"
"—kidney shot, man, dirty as hell—"
"—Elroy don't play fair, everyone knows that—"
"—ain't even get caught, ref was looking the other way—"
Marcus stared at the ceiling in silence. So Elroy was precisely what he appeared to be—a cheater. A fighter who won by breaking rules when nobody was watching.
Good to know.
"Cheap shot," Marcus said to the darkness. "Of course."
Two weeks. Fourteen days to prepare for a fight against someone who would try anything to win.
Marcus closed his eyes and started planning.