The clank of the cell door echoed down the cold, concrete halls. Nineteen-year-old Malik "The Ghost" Hunter didn't flinch. His hands, cuffed tightly, rested on his lap as the guard's boots scuffed the floor behind him. He could feel the weight of their stares—the other inmates peering out from their cells, sizing him up, whispering under their breath.
"Fresh meat," one of them muttered.
Malik kept his head down. He didn't respond. He didn't need to. Words were cheap in a place like this.
It was 2020, and Malik had just been sentenced to five years for his part in a botched bank robbery. He hadn't pulled the trigger, but it didn't matter. The system didn't care. The judge didn't care. His so-called friends who bailed on him during the getaway definitely didn't care.
He shuffled into the cell, the door slamming shut behind him. Alone, he leaned against the cold steel wall, his broad shoulders hunched, his mind racing. Five years. Five years to think about how he ended up here. Five years to figure out how to survive.
The first few weeks passed in silence. Malik didn't talk to anyone, didn't bother making friends. He kept to himself, watching, observing, learning the unspoken rules of the prison yard. Fights broke out daily—sometimes over food, sometimes over nothing at all.
One day, he noticed a small group of inmates huddled in the corner of the yard. They weren't just talking—they were watching something. Curious, Malik edged closer, careful to stay unnoticed.
Two men were fighting. Not brawling like in the mess hall or showers, but real fighting—measured punches, controlled movements. It wasn't boxing, not exactly, but it wasn't random chaos either.
Malik's eyes narrowed. He didn't know it yet, but this moment would change everything.
"Yo," a voice growled behind him. Malik turned slowly. A stocky man with a scar running down his cheek stared him down. "You wanna watch? You gotta fight first."
Malik didn't answer. He just stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.
For the first time in his life, he didn't feel scared.
Here's the opening of the "5 years later" section:
5 YEARS LATER...
Malik Hunter stepped out into the crisp morning air, the sunlight almost blinding after five years behind bars. The world outside seemed louder, faster, and more chaotic than he remembered. Cars zipped by on the street, people bustled in every direction, and the weight of his duffel bag felt heavier than it should.
Freedom felt strange.
His release papers were crumpled in his pocket, a reminder that while he was free, his past wasn't erased. Five years had changed him. His once-boyish face was now rugged, marked by the hard lines of time and survival. Tattoos sprawled across his arms and chest, some inked in the sterile monotony of the prison's underground, others earned in the heat of fights.
He clenched his fists instinctively, feeling the calluses on his knuckles. Those hands had seen more battles than most people could imagine.
But this wasn't prison anymore.
Malik had no plan—just a resolve not to go back. He needed a job, a place to stay, and a way to keep moving forward. The thought of returning to the underground fight scene tempted him, but he shook it off. He wanted something real, something legal.
The small gym caught his eye as he walked down the street. Its sign was faded, the windows fogged with years of dust and sweat. Inside, he could hear the rhythmic pounding of gloves against heavy bags.
He paused, staring at the entrance.
"Boxing," he muttered under his breath. He'd never considered it before. The underground fights in prison were raw, brutal, and lawless. This was different. This was a sport.
Taking a deep breath, Malik pushed the door open.
The gym smelled like old leather and hard work. A handful of fighters were scattered around—some sparring, others shadowboxing. At the far end of the room, a wiry older man with a clipboard shouted instructions to a young fighter working the pads.
Malik hesitated, unsure of what to say. The older man glanced up, his sharp eyes scanning Malik's frame.
"You lost?" the man asked, his voice gruff but curious.
"No," Malik replied, stepping forward. "I'm looking to box."
The man raised an eyebrow, setting his clipboard down. "You got any experience?"
"Not… officially."
The man chuckled, crossing his arms. "Name's Coach Taylor. Step in the ring, show me what you've got. Then we'll talk."
Malik nodded. This was it—the start of something new.