The first rays of morning light stretched through the thin curtains, casting dull streaks of gold across the ceiling.
Killa stirred, eyes blinking open to the muted sounds of the orphanage stirring to life.
Footsteps shuffled down the halls, doors creaked open, and faint chatter echoed from the kitchen.
For the first time in a long while, he had slept deeply.
But the sleep did little to erase the weight pressing against his ribs.
His body still ached in places—his knuckles raw, his shoulders sore. His mind was even heavier, replaying flashes of last night.
The old man.
The boxing gym.
The way his body had locked in when he was about to fight.
Killa exhaled, rubbing his face with both hands. No point lying in bed.
He rolled out of the thin mattress, wincing slightly as his feet met the cold wooden floor. His room, as always, was sparse—just a bed, a battered dresser, and a small desk stacked with a few worn-out books.
The single window cast dim morning light over the room, highlighting dust motes drifting lazily in the air.
He had work to do.
The orphanage ran on routine. Every morning, the children were assigned tasks—cleaning, fetching water, washing dishes, helping with the younger ones. Killa's task today was water duty.
He stepped outside, grabbing two dented metal buckets from the back steps. The morning air was crisp, laced with the scent of damp earth.
The sky was a pale blue, still stretching itself awake.
The pump was at the far end of the courtyard. Other kids were already at work—some sweeping, others hauling laundry, their chatter filling the space.
Killa worked in silence, pumping water into the buckets with steady, practiced movements.
His mind, however, was far from here.
It kept circling back to last night.
To the old man.
To the way the man had looked at him—like he already knew something about Killa that Killa himself didn't.
A voice broke through his thoughts.
"Killa."
He looked up, his hands still gripping the pump's handle.
Sister Maria stood near the orphanage's entrance, her face unreadable. "Come inside," she said simply. "There's someone here to see you."
Killa frowned.
Is someone looking for him?
He placed the buckets aside and followed her in, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the wooden floors.
He didn't have to wonder for long.
Because as soon as he turned the corner, he saw him.
The old man from last night stood near the front of the orphanage, his posture relaxed but his sharp eyes scanning everything with quiet familiarity.
His coat looked even older in the daylight—patched at the elbows, its fabric worn down by years of use. His face was lined with deep creases, not just from age, but from something else. A life lived rough.
But despite the heavy gaze, there was something… unhurried about him. As if nothing in the world could rush the man.
Killa's steps slowed, still staring at the old man.
Maria stopped beside him, arms crossed, her gaze flicking between the two of them before she spoke.
"Joe runs a gym not far from here," she said. "He came to see you."
Killa's brows furrowed. "Joe? Me?"
Joe let out a dry chuckle. "Don't look so shocked, kid." His voice was rough, like gravel rolling over pavement.
"Ain't every day I see a stray who looks like he belongs in a ring more than half the punks that come through my gym."
Killa didn't respond. He wasn't sure how.
Maria sighed. "Joe needs hands at his gym. Cleaning, mostly. Mopping, wiping down equipment, keeping things in order. It's honest work."
Killa's lips pressed into a thin line. "You want me to clean a boxing gym?"
Maria nodded. "It's better than spending all your time getting into fights."
Killa scoffed. "Yeah? And what difference does it make?"
Joe studied him for a long moment, then shrugged. "The difference is, you get paid."
Killa's interest sparked before he could stop it.
Joe noticed.
His smirk was subtle, but there. "Not much. Just a little. But it's yours. No orphanage rules on how you use it."
Killa stayed silent.
Maria, sensing his hesitation, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I think it would be good for you."
Killa exhaled, his mind weighing the decision. The orphanage had its rules—he couldn't just wander around all the time.
Having somewhere else to go wasn't the worst idea.
Still…
"What do I get out of it?" Killa asked, crossing his arms.
Joe chuckled, low and knowing. "Aside from the money?"
Killa nodded.
The old man's lips twitched. "You get to watch the fights."
Killa's breath hitched.
Joe had him now, and they both knew it.
Maria tensed beside him. "Joe—"
The old man silenced her with a single glance.
It was brief, but firm.
There was something unspoken in that look—something Maria understood instantly. Her lips pressed together in frustration, but she didn't argue further.
Killa, however, was oblivious to the silent exchange.
All he could think about was the gym.
The fights.
The possibility of stepping into that world.
"…Fine," he said finally. "I'll do it."
Joe smirked. "Good."
Maria sighed, rubbing her temple. "You start tomorrow," she muttered.
Joe gave a short nod. "See you then, kid."
And with that, he turned and walked away, his old coat swaying slightly with each step.
"Let me see you out," Maria said like she had a beef with Joe before joining the old man at the door.
Killa watched them go, his mind already racing ahead.
He didn't know what he had just signed up for.
But something told him—
This was only the beginning.