There was something about Daniel's punch that ignited a raw, primal desire within Vincent. He wanted it. No—he needed it. Funnily enough, it wasn't just want; it was adoration. He couldn't help but see it as an art form.
A striking masterpiece.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, that demonstration made Vincent dream.
He dreamt of his childhood.
In that dream, life was simpler. His parents were alive. No burdens weighed on his shoulders, no complications twisted his fate. He was just a boy in a red cape, running wild, his fists slicing through the air with each punch.
His mother stood a short distance away, lowering herself to his level with her arms spread wide—a silent invitation to warmth.
Vincent ran.
His short red cape billowed violently in the wind, his small, six-year-old legs pushing him forward with all their might. He crashed into his mother's embrace, pressing his cheek against her soft chest, drinking in the comfort he never realized he had missed.
Not that he even had any memory of it.
She smiled—serene, radiant, like the incarnate of a white water lily. Light seemed to pour from her presence, illuminating the very air around them.
The resplendent woman tilted her head slightly, her gaze lingering on him, soft with contemplation.
"Say, Vincent, why do you love throwing so many punches?" she mused. "Since you wear the cape of a hero, don't you want to become Superman? Shouldn't you be practicing flying instead of punching?"
There was no teasing in her voice, only genuine curiosity.
Vincent paused.
He stood there, looking up at her, his tiny mind swimming in thought.
She waited, her gentle focus unwavering, as if savoring the way her child processed the question.
Then, a bright grin broke across his face.
"I like his punches! Superman punches so well!"
She blinked, her head tilting further, puzzled by his enthusiasm.
"I'm sure there are boxers who punch better than Superman."
Vincent gasped, his little face twisting in absolute horror.
"That's a lie! Mummy is a liar!! Superman's punches make houses break—BOOM!!" He spread his arms wide for effect, eyes alight with the thrill of imagined destruction. "Boxers can't do that!"
He stared up at her, betrayal etched into every line of his tiny features.
For a moment, she was taken aback, then a chuckle slipped past her lips. She reached down, ruffling his hair with a tender touch.
"Alright, my baby," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I do hope that one day, you'll be able to throw punches like that."
—
Vincent woke up to a dull throbbing in his skull. A short dream—fleeting yet powerful—still lingered in his mind, leaving behind an ache deeper than any headache.
A rare glimpse of her.
He swallowed against the bitter taste in his mouth, sitting up as the fragments of the dream aligned like puzzle pieces.
But this was more than just a dream. It was a memory.
Vincent had always loved something about punches—kicks, too. The raw, untamed force behind them, the impossible strength. The way the wind seemed to part before a perfectly executed strike. But as he grew, that love had been forced into dormancy, buried beneath the weight of reality.
Because it was impossible.
It only happened in movies.
As a young, starry-eyed child, he had believed in those impossibilities. In lieu of that belief, he had devoured movies—war films with dramatic effects, heroic tales filled with superhuman feats. He watched, enraptured, as fists cleaved through the air, as speed defied physics, as raw power turned men into titans.
But that was just it.
This was life. And in life, none of those things were real.
Or so he had thought.
Yesterday proved him wrong.
Vincent recognized it—that speed, that sharpness. That power. It was real. There was no way Daniel could have pulled off that punch without endless, ceaseless, ruthless training.
And Vincent wanted it.
It wasn't just admiration. It was a fire—one that had long been extinguished, now rekindled into an inferno.
A ridiculous obsession. Unreasonable. Something he had convinced himself he needed to let go of because he wasn't a child anymore.
But now?
He didn't give a shit.
Whether he looked like a child or not, whether his desires were childish or not—none of it mattered anymore.
Life had already thrown him into the unreal. From standing on the precipice of suicide to awakening a voice in his head that projected letters into the air, issuing him quests—how much more fantastical could things get?
A shaky laugh escaped his lips as he stared into the bathroom mirror.
His reflection stared back.
His height, his build—every inch of him was proof of his unreal he never truly believed in.
His fingers curled into fists.
"I might as well take it all the way."
The thought had barely settled when a monotone voice echoed in his ears.
[Congratulations.]
[You have accepted the reality of your situation.]
[You have gained one Utility Card.]
[You have gained a Special Quest Scenario: Daily Workout Quests.]
[Complete Daily Workout Quests to gain rewards daily.]
Vincent's eyes widened for a moment, then his lips curled.
"Oh? It's good that you are aligning to my will."
Or he is aligning to Blu's will, it didn't matter as long as they both got what they wanted.
Vincent looked down at the panel of words.
"Let's see what we have today for daily Quests."