The morning sun, now stretched long golden streaks across the orphanage courtyard, the early breeze carrying the scent of damp earth and soap from the freshly scrubbed floors.
The distant chatter of children echoed softly, their voices bright against the backdrop of the old stone building.
Sister Maria walked alongside Old Joe, her habit shifting with each step as they made their way toward the iron gates.
Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, her face composed, but her eyes—her eyes held something deeper.
Concern. Frustration. And something that looked dangerously close to helplessness.
Old Joe, in contrast, strolled with an easy gait, his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn-out jacket.
His shoulders were slightly hunched, not from weakness, but from the weight of years spent in a world that had taught him too many hard lessons.
He had the look of a man who had seen things—lived through them, learned from them, and carried them without complaint.
As they neared the gate, Maria finally broke the silence.
"You shouldn't have told him that," she said quietly, her voice even, but firm.
Old Joe didn't look at her right away. He took his time, glancing at the children playing in the distance, at the sky overhead, at the cracks in the stone path beneath his feet. Then he exhaled, shaking his head slightly.
"And what exactly should I have told him, Sister?" he asked, his voice rough like gravel, but not unkind.
"You should have simply told him to work. No promises of letting him watch fights. No tempting him with things that will only feed that fire inside him," Maria said, her tone growing sharper. "I know Killa. I've raised him. He doesn't need more reasons to throw his fists."
Old Joe stopped then, turning slightly to face her. His weathered face was unreadable, but his sharp eyes—the same ones that had seen countless young fighters walk in and out of his gym—gleamed with something Maria couldn't quite place.
"Sister," he said, his voice quieter now, but steady. "You think keeping him away from it will change him?"
Maria stiffened. "I think keeping him away from violence will keep him from becoming consumed by it."
Old Joe let out a low, dry chuckle. "You really believe that, don't you?"
Maria's hands curled slightly at her sides. "Yes."
He sighed and looked past her, watching the orphanage doors as if expecting Killa to come storming back out. Then he shook his head.
"Killa's not like the other kids, Maria," Old Joe muttered. "You know that better than anyone."
"I do," Maria admitted. "Which is exactly why I don't want him anywhere near your gym."
Old Joe studied her for a moment, his gaze unreadable, but patient. Then, slowly, he pulled his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms.
"Let me ask you something," he said. "If we don't let him find a way to understand himself—to control whatever it is that burns inside him—then what do you think happens next?"
Maria's lips parted slightly, but no words came.
"Let me tell you what happens," Old Joe continued, his voice steady but edged with something firm.
"You keep trying to shove that fire down, and one day, it explodes. Not in a controlled space. Not in a ring where someone can pull him back. But out there"—he gestured toward the city beyond the gates—"where no one will stop him before it's too late."
Maria swallowed her throat tight. "That's not fair."
"It ain't about fair," Old Joe said simply. "It's about what is."
Maria looked away, her gaze fixed on the ground. Her fingers twitched slightly in frustration.
Old Joe sighed, softening just a little. "Look," he said, "I'm not gonna turn him into some street fighter if that's what you're worried about.
But forcing him to be something he's not? That won't help him. Killa's got too much in him to just sit still and pretend he's like everyone else."
Maria let out a slow breath. "And what do you suggest? That we just let him fight?"
"No," Old Joe said, shaking his head. "I'm saying we teach him how to fight the right way. The smart way. We don't deny him his nature—we help him understand it."
Maria frowned but said nothing.
Old Joe took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough for only her to hear. "You care about that boy," he murmured.
"I can see it plain as day. And you don't want to lose him to something dark. But, Sister, if we don't let him find his own way, we might lose him all the same."
Maria's chest tightened.
She thought of the nights she'd stayed awake worrying about him. Thought of the fights, the bruises, the restless energy that never seemed to leave him.
Thought of the look in his eyes every time he came back from a fight—like he wasn't sure if he had won anything at all.
She didn't want this life for him.
But maybe…
Maybe he didn't have a choice.
Old Joe watched her carefully, then, seeing her hesitation, gave a slow nod.
"I won't let him get out of control," he promised. "I'll make sure he learns more than just how to throw a punch. But you have to trust me."
Maria pressed her lips together, torn between everything she believed in and the reality she knew too well.
Finally, she let out a long breath. "Fine," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "But if I see this pushing him further down the wrong path—"
"It won't," Old Joe said simply.
Maria studied him for a moment longer, then sighed, shaking her head. "I hope you know what you're doing, Joe."
The old man let out a small chuckle, tucking his hands back into his pockets. "Me too, Sister. Me too."
With that, he turned and stepped out of the gates, walking into the morning light.
Maria watched him go, her heart still heavy with worry.
She just hoped Killa would find what he needed—before it was too late.