"Twelve-minute gaps between matches. No coaching. No slowing down."
Ruud's voice cut through the office wall like glass, and Marcus pressed closer to the locker room door, every muscle tense. Two days—forty-eight hours—until he faced Elroy Adams in the ring.
Time to work.
The streets before dawn belonged to him alone, with empty sidewalks stretching through the heart of Rotterdam as his footsteps echoed off sleeping shops and locked doors. The city dreamed while he pounded miles, and his stride felt different now, longer and more controlled. Each step landed with purpose instead of panic, and the burning in his lungs came later and lasted shorter. Two weeks of training had transformed his teenage flesh and bones into something efficient.
No racing thoughts cluttered his mind, and no doubts spiraled through him like smoke; there was rhythm, motion, and the steady beat of improvement measured in heartbeats and distance. He remembered his first jogs in this timeline: sloppy form, wasted energy, a mind spinning with fear and uncertainty. Young Marcus had run from problems instead of toward solutions, but now he ran with intent, with every step a debt paid against the future.
The last two weeks blurred together as Ruud's training regimen never let up, with footwork drills until his calves screamed, guard work until his shoulders burned, and breathing exercises that made the world tilt sideways. There was no glory in any of it—just sweat.
Marcus had made plenty of mistakes, with footwork too wide on the pivot drill, his guard dropping when exhaustion crept in, and his breathing becoming shallow under pressure. Yet he fixed every mistake without explaining how he knew what needed correcting or mentioning the voice tracking every improvement in his mind.
Ruud watched everything, saying little, with those sharp eyes cataloging progress, weakness, and potential like a computer calculating odds. The system remained constant but quiet, with missions appearing like clockwork—stair sprints for explosive power, push-up variations for core strength, and squat holds that made his thighs shake.
Nothing flashy, nothing miraculous—just incremental gains adding up to something greater. The AI never encouraged him or offered comfort or motivational speeches; it tracked, measured, and assigned tasks, and Marcus obeyed.
It was a simple transaction between man and machine.
During his two rest days, Marcus met Aaron outside the gym. They were at the corner store buying energy drinks for the first time while Aaron complained about algebra. They were at the football pitch the second time, watching pickup games as his friend ranted about teachers and homework.
Marcus listened more than he spoke, letting Aaron fill the silence with teenage problems that felt almost quaint now.
"You going mute on me?" Aaron joked during their second meeting, nudging Marcus with his elbow.
Marcus smirked but stayed quiet. What could he say? That he had already lived this life once? That he knew exactly how all these school dramas would play out?
Better to listen and remember what normal felt like before everything got complicated.
At home, survival mode settled over their family like fog. Mom worked doubles, coming home dead on her feet and barely speaking beyond asking if they had eaten. Zara did homework, watched cartoons, and teased Marcus about his calluses when she saw them.
They ate leftovers most nights—day-old rice with whatever vegetables hadn't gone bad, and bread and butter when the rice ran out. Nobody complained; complaining took energy they didn't have.
The distance in their apartment wasn't anger; it was routine. Everyone was tired, everyone was surviving, and everyone was focused on making it through another day intact.
Marcus understood now what he had missed before. This wasn't neglect or indifference; this was a family doing whatever it took to keep moving forward.
He had judged them for it once, calling Mom absent, Zara annoying, and their home depressing. Now he saw the strength—the quiet determination that kept them afloat when everything else sank.
His morning run ended at their front door, followed by a shower, breakfast, and school—another day in the timeline he was slowly bending toward something better.
Fight day arrived like a punch to the gut.
Marcus pushed through the gym doors into chaos, with eight boys warming up in different corners, gloves being taped, headgear adjusted, and nervous energy crackling through the air like lightning before a storm.
The space felt smaller with stakes attached, the ring ropes more confining, the ceiling pressing down. Everything compressed into this moment to decide who moved forward and went home empty.
There was no carnival atmosphere here—no announcers, sponsors, or bright camera lights—just the quiet kind of energy that built before pain arrived to sort winners from losers.
Jamal shadow-boxed near the heavy bags, combinations flowing as smoothly as water, while Rico Santos stretched against the wall, his long limbs loose and ready for war. Kevin de Vries pounded the speed bag with machine precision.
In the far corner, Elroy Adams sat on a folding chair, already gloved up. His eyes scan the room like a predator choosing which prey to devour first. His gaze finds Marcus and holds; no words are exchanged, none are needed.
Two weeks of preparation came down to this. Everything else was just noise.
"What if they freeze?" Matteo's voice carried from the office.
"Then they break," Ruud's response was clear and devoid of emotion, just fact.
A pause, then Matteo again. "This Dorsey kid—he always this quiet?"
Ruud didn't look up from whatever paperwork held his attention. "Some kids bark. Some bite. We'll find out which one he is."
The truth was, Marcus had been both in his first life—loud when he should have stayed quiet, silent when he should have spoken up, always getting the timing wrong and reading the room backward.
This time felt different; he knew the difference between confidence and desperation.
Marcus found his corner and began the ritual—hand wraps first, white cloth tight around knuckles and wrists, the familiar ceremony separating training from fighting, practice from pain.
Other boys laughed and joked, burning nervous energy through conversation, but Marcus stayed still—no wasted words, no pointless motion. His breathing remained steady and controlled; the system had taught him that much oxygen was fuel, and fuel needed conservation for when it mattered most.
He thought about Elroy's dirty tactics—kidney shots when the ref looked away, elbows in the clinch, maybe a low blow if desperation set in. All manageable; Marcus had seen worse in his professional career and survived worse.
The difference was knowing what to expect. Dirty fighting had caught him off guard the first time around, made him angry, and made him sloppy. Now it was just information—data to process and counter.
His hands flexed inside the wraps, testing, ready.
Around him, the gym pulsed with pre-fight energy. Boys tried to look calm while their hearts hammered, coaches made last-minute adjustments, and parents filed in to watch their sons rise or fall.
Marcus closed his eyes, centered himself, and found that quiet place where doubt couldn't reach. When he opened them again, everything looked sharper, cleaner, as if someone had adjusted the focus on reality.
Footsteps scattered outside the locker room as someone called the first match—Kevin de Vries versus Ahmed Hassan, two sluggers about to try taking each other's heads off.
Marcus looked up at the light seeping under the door, a yellow fluorescent glow that meant everything and nothing.
One phase of his new life would be over in a few hours. Win or lose, qualified or eliminated, he'd know exactly where he stood in this timeline.
But that was later; right now was just this moment, just the weight of wraps around his hands and the steady rhythm of his heart.
He stood slowly, tested his balance, and rolled his shoulders loose.
Outside, a bell rang—the first fight was starting.
Time to find out if all the work had been worth it.
Time to bite.