Killa's fingers brushed against the rough surface of the heavy bag.
The worn canvas felt solid beneath his touch, packed tight with sand and hardened over years of abuse.
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. Take a shot at it"
Killa stared at Old Joe trying to find anything about the man but he just stared at Killa with a blank expression.
After not seeing anything, Killa turned to the bag, still admiring the leathered target.
He clenched his fist, rolling his shoulders. The world around him dulled—muted voices, the rhythmic creak of old leather, the faint scent of sweat and chalk hanging in the air as Killa prepared to try.
The bag in front of him felt different from anything he'd ever hit before. More stubborn. More resistant.
A slow exhale.
His stance adjusted naturally, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet. He didn't think about it—it just happened.
Then, he struck.
Thud.
The impact rippled through his knuckles, up his arm, into his shoulder. A deep vibration, like hitting something alive.
The bag lurched backward, a bit more than it should have considering the perpetrator's frame.
The chains overhead groaned, the metal hooks scraping against the ceiling fixture. The bag swung, its weight thrown off-balance by the sheer force of the hit.
Killa blinked.
It wasn't normal. He knew it wasn't normal. He'd thrown punches before—on kids in school, on the streets, on anything that tried to dominate him. But never had he felt a punch land like that.
His fingers tingled, warm from the impact, but there was no real pain.
Old Joe, seated a few feet away, had gone still. His cane, which had been resting on his knee, slipped slightly as he straightened.
His sharp eyes, trained from decades in the sport, were locked on the bag.
"…Again," he said still staring at Killa with widened eyes.
After hearing old Joe's voice, Killa hesitated for only a second before stepping forward.
This time, he focused. He let himself sink into it, the way his feet pressed into the floor, the way his arm moved before his body did, like something deep inside was adjusting instinctively.
He punched.
Boom.
The bag shuddered more violently than the first. A small, sharp tear split along the side, barely noticeable, but enough to send a faint trickle of sand spilling onto the gym floor.
Killa pulled back, staring at the tear.
Joe rose slowly to his feet, his old bones creaking, but his expression unreadable.
He took a step forward, tapping the bag with his knuckles before running a calloused hand over the fresh rip.
He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly.
It shouldn't be possible.
A nine-year-old shouldn't be able to make a bag like this react that way.
It wasn't just strength—it was the way Killa moved. The way he hit. The way he instinctively transferred power through his entire body in a way that took years to develop.
Joe's fingers tapped against the damaged bag once more before he turned back to Killa.
The boy's expression was unreadable, but his hands were still clenched, still warm from the punch.
Joe licked his lips, his mind already racing.
For the first time in a long, long while, he felt it—an itch. A deeply buried one.
Just what was this kid?
As the two stood still in silence, each in their thoughts, the gym doors swung open.
One after another, fighters stepped inside, their presence shifting the air, filling the empty space with movement.
Some walked in quietly, focused, their gym bags slung over their shoulders. Others greeted each other with curt nods, their voices low, their words few.
The faint shuffle of their feet against the concrete floor was the only sound breaking the silence that had settled between Old Joe and Killa.
Killa stood still, his hands still faintly curled from the lingering tension of his last punch. He could feel the shift in the atmosphere—subtle, yet unmistakable.
The gym was no longer his alone. It was waking up, stirring as the fighters arrived, their presence bringing with it an unspoken energy.
A few glanced his way, their eyes flicking from him to Old Joe. But no one spoke. Not yet.
The rhythmic creak of leather as someone tightened the straps on their gloves. The quiet exhale of breath as another fighter rolled his shoulders.
The sound of a zipper being undone, gear being pulled out, wraps being adjusted.
Killa took it all in, standing there in the middle of it, his presence yet to be acknowledged. But it was only a matter of time.