New York City, Brooklyn's Negro District.
Emwood's closed camp.
A black teenager lay soundly asleep on a small bed, while a white teenager huddled in the corner, trembling.
Suddenly, the black youth stirred awake, blinking in confusion.
"Where am I?"
The room's sparse furnishings consisted of two narrow beds, a table, and a chair. A rudimentary restroom, poorly shielded by wooden boards, stood nearby.
But what truly unnerved him was the heavy iron barred door. It felt like he was trapped in a cell.
"What the hell? How did I end up in a prison after a nap?"
He noticed the white boy with blonde hair cowering in the corner and approached, gently patting his shoulder.
"Hey, buddy, can you tell me where this is?"
The boy let out a small squeak and lifted his gaze, panic apparent in his eyes.
"What do you mean? Speak properly!"
"What are you saying? I don't understand."
The white boy spoke English fluently, but the black teenager was momentarily stunned. He quickly responded in the same fluid dialect, "I asked you where we are."
"Emwood's closed camp," replied the white boy, his voice shaky, eyes glued to the floor.
Tyson caught sight of the bruise marring the boy's face. Closed camp? Wasn't that just a euphemism for juvenile detention?
What the hell had happened?
His name was Tai Mingsen, a professional boxer renowned for his ferocious style, nicknamed "Little Beast." After winning a recent match that put him face-to-face with the world champion, he celebrated a little too hard with friends. He hadn't expected to wake up here.
He'd perused tales of parallel worlds, never believing he might become a part of one. But who was he now?
Moonlight filtered through the barred window, illuminating his well-defined, dark arms. He was undeniably Black.
"Hey, friend, do you know my name?"
The white boy shifted uncomfortably, his eyes wide with fear.
"Tyson."
Was it mere coincidence that the former occupant of this body shared the same name?
A chilling thought crossed his mind. Had he somehow assumed the identity of someone else?
"Brother, what's my full name?"
The boy scrunched further into himself and stammered, "Mike Tyson."
Tyson recoiled, his expression a whirlwind of disbelief. Mike Tyson—the legendary boxing figure, a symbol of power and controversy. He had become his idol, the very reason he entered the ring.
Excitement surged through him.
He reached to feel his teeth. Still there—alive and well!
The white boy continued to flinch away.
"Don't be scared; I just got a little carried away with my excitement," Tyson said, trying to reassure him.
Silence lingered.
"What's your name?" he finally asked.
"Justin Bach."
Tyson regarded the trembling figure huddled in the corner, perplexed. "Why aren't you in bed sleeping?"
"You won't let me," Justin replied, voice quivering.
Tyson chuckled softly. "Alright, you can go to bed now."
Cautiously, Justin climbed onto the bed, still eyeing Tyson warily.
"Why is this kid so terrified? I haven't even laid a finger on him," Tyson mused silently.
"Bach, I promise I won't hurt you again." He ensured him repeatedly until the boy finally relaxed and lay down.
With Justin settled, Tyson let himself smile. His excitement had kept him awake through the night, but he couldn't help but feel exhilarated by the day to come.
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
"Hey, Tyson! Time for class!"
Tyson's head shot up to see a 13-year-old Black boy at the entrance.
After a quick wave, the boy darted away.
"Bach, who was that?"
Justin hesitated but finally murmured, "Jamie, your friend."
"Jamie" felt foreign; he barely had any recollection of a friend by that name. Why didn't he have any memories in this new existence?
Tyson pondered aloud, prompting Justin to explain that while closed camps were indeed types of juvenile facilities, they provided a semblance of freedom. They had access to education and sufficient meals—much different from traditional detention centers.
As their conversation progressed, Justin's apprehension began to dissipate.
Together, they walked out into the compound, making their way to the classroom. What was dubbed a "course" turned out to be simple education facilitated by a tutor, who offered assistance as needed. With no significant challenges arising, most kids simply sat in silence for two hours, effectively skipping genuine learning.
Tyson noted the lethargy in the room. These kids were mischief-makers, not scholars.
And he, too, chose not to ask questions... the material was beneath him.
As the session concluded, a thought struck Tyson: "There's no need to come back tomorrow."
"Hey, Mike! You wanna play football?" Jamie's voice rang out as he approached with a ball.
"Not today. I feel like exploring," Tyson replied.
A puzzled look crossed Jamie's face before he continued on his way with the ball.
After a moment of wandering aimlessly, Tyson was struck by the imposing presence of the guards. They towered over him and the other kids, wrapping the entire camp in an atmosphere of confinement.
"Hey, little guy, looks like you'll be skipping lunch today!" one guard said with a casual kick.
"What a gentleman," Tyson shot back, glaring.
The guard, marked with the name "Ford Sissy," laughed, momentarily taken aback. "Alright, kid, I apologize."
"I graciously accept," Tyson proclaimed with mock seriousness.
"Funny kid," the guard chuckled, clearly entertained.
At the mess hall, Tyson took his meal—four slices of bread with a dollop of jam, a small slab of cheese, a chicken leg, and a glass of milk.
Just as he settled down to eat, three boys slid into the seats beside him, sporting various injuries. One had a torn lip with dried blood, another had a nose stuffed with cotton, and the last had scabs on his cheek.
"What happened to you guys?" Tyson asked, concern creeping in.
It seemed impossible they had been fighting in this heavily guarded facility, so how had they sustained such injuries?
The boy with the cotton replied with a sigh, "Nearly took him down today," nodding toward his friends.
"Tomorrow, we'll get him for sure!" another added excitedly, despite the bruises.
"How can you be so cheerful about this torture?" Tyson wondered aloud.
"The coach, Stuart, is teaching us boxing," the boy with the scabs explained.
Tyson's interest piqued.
"Boxing? I want to see Coach Stuart," he announced, eager.
"Welcome to the club; you'll fit right in." They exchanged grins.
After finishing his meal and receiving additional food, Tyson stepped outside to find Sissy again.
"Full yet, little Tyson?" the guard asked.
"Absolutely, Sir Sissy," Tyson replied with a playful grin.
"Well, you're growing on me," the guard admitted, shaking his head.
With a confident stride, Tyson returned to his cabin. Justin was there, looking lost.
Nothing else appeared to be happening, so Tyson decided to train.
His first task: squats. Building leg strength was essential in boxing—powerful legs equate to quick movements, key in the ring.
Even completing two hundred squats proved a challenge for a body unaccustomed to training.