Killa's eyes snapped open before the first rays of dawn could creep through the cracks in the old wooden shutters.
For a moment, he lay still, staring at the ceiling, his heartbeat steady but expectant. There was an unusual energy coursing through him—something unfamiliar yet oddly exhilarating.
It took him a second to realize what it was.
Excitement.
The thought made him scoff. It had been a long time since he had looked forward to anything. Most days were just the same cycle—wake up, go to school, avoid trouble (or find it), and then return to the orphanage before nightfall. But today was different.
Today, he was going to Old Joe's gym.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the wooden floor cold against his bare feet.
The orphanage was still quiet, the other kids lost in sleep. He took his time getting dressed, lacing up his worn sneakers before stepping out into the hallway.
By the time breakfast was served, the orphanage was alive with the usual chaos. Kids ran around, Sister Maria scolded someone for sneaking extra bread, and the younger ones chattered about whatever nonsense filled their heads.
Killa, however, was in his own world, barely registering any of it.
...
At school, Nico noticed almost immediately.
"You're acting weird," he said as they walked down the hallway between classes.
Killa barely glanced at him. "No, I'm not."
Nico raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, you are. You've been tapping your foot all morning. You never do that."
Killa glanced down at his foot, which was, in fact, tapping against the floor as they stood near the classroom doorway. He stopped immediately.
Nico smirked. "So? What's got you all excited?"
"Nothing," Killa muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Nico gave him a look, unconvinced. "You? Excited over nothing? Yeah, right."
Killa rolled his eyes. "Drop it."
Nico let out an exaggerated sigh but didn't press further.
But Killa knew he'd keep an eye on him.
The school day crawled at an unbearable pace, but when the final bell rang, Killa wasted no time.
The second they were dismissed, he bolted out of the schoolyard. He heard Nico call after him, but he didn't stop.
His legs carried him through the streets, weaving between pedestrians with the ease of someone who knew the city like the back of his hand.
The orphanage was a blur—he ran inside, changed into a plain t-shirt and shorts, then dashed out again before Maria could even question him.
He wasn't late, but he wasn't about to waste another second.
The gym wasn't in the best part of town. It was tucked into a corner of the city where the air smelled of sweat, steel, and old leather.
A faded sign hung above the entrance, the letters barely legible, but Killa didn't need to read it. He already knew—this was the place.
He slowed his steps as he approached, his heartbeat loud in his ears.
And then, standing by the entrance, arms crossed, was Guissepe.
His face was sharp, his jaw lined with scruff, and his eyes—dark and observant—locked onto Killa the moment he stepped forward.
For a few seconds, neither of them said anything.
Then Guissepe gave him a slow, deliberate once-over, taking in his frame,
Killa stood his ground, meeting his gaze without flinching.
Finally, Guissepe nodded, stepping aside. "Go in."
Killa didn't need to be told twice.
The moment he stepped inside, the atmosphere hit him—like stepping through an invisible barrier into another world.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat, chalk, and worn-out leather. The dim overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a yellowish glow over the room.
Heavy bags hung from the ceiling, their chains creaking as they swayed slightly from previous impact. In the far corner, a raised boxing ring sat empty, the ropes sagging slightly from use.
Weights were stacked against the walls, and faded posters of legendary fighters covered nearly every inch of the peeling paint.
But what stood out the most was the sound.
Even though the gym was mostly empty, the place seemed alive—echoes of past punches, of grunts and sharp exhales, of feet shifting against the mat.
It was raw. It was real.
And it was unlike anything Killa had ever experienced before.
After looking around for a bit, Killa looked behind the ring where Old Joe was already waiting for him.
The man sat on a worn-out stool near the ring, his wrinkled hands resting on a cane that Killa was convinced he barely needed. His sharp, sunken eyes followed Killa as he approached.
"You're on time," Joe noted, his voice gravelly.
Killa shrugged. "Said I'd be here, didn't I?"
Joe smirked faintly. "That you did."
The old man leaned forward slightly, studying him. "You know what you're here to do, right?"
Killa exhaled. "Clean."
Joe nodded. "Good. Start with the floors. Then the benches. Finish with the windows."
Killa didn't complain. He grabbed a mop from the corner and got to work.
Cleaning wasn't hard, but Killa had always been quick with his hands.
He moved efficiently, scrubbing the floors with sharp, precise motions. The benches were wiped down in minutes, and the dust-covered windows—though annoying—were spotless by the time he was done.
Old Joe watched him from his stool, occasionally muttering under his breath, but he never interfered.
By the time Killa finished, he had barely broken a sweat.
Joe raised an eyebrow. "Half the time I expected."
Killa shrugged. "Told you I'm quick."
Joe chuckled, shaking his head.
With the cleaning done, Killa's gaze drifted.
To the heavy bag.
It hung there, untouched, swaying slightly from some earlier impact. Something about it called to him.
He walked toward it without thinking. His fingers grazed the rough canvas, feeling the ridges and creases.
A sharp voice cut through the air.
"You ever punched one of those before?"
Killa turned. Old Joe was watching him, expression unreadable.
Killa hesitated for a moment before answering. "No."
Joe hummed, leaning back slightly. "Go on, then."
Killa didn't need more encouragement.
He curled his fingers into a fist, drew his arm back, and—