The air in the gym thickened—not from the heat or sweat, but from the slow realization that something had changed before the fighters even stepped in.
Old Joe finally shifted, rubbing his chin, but his sharp gaze never left Killa. The boy, however, was still staring at the bag, as if waiting for it to swing back toward him like it might strike him in return.
But it barely moved anymore, just a slight sway, the force of his punch long settled.
The fighters, all in different states of preparation, started noticing the silence at the center of the gym.
Some only spared a glance before going about their business, wrapping their hands, stretching, or shadow-boxing near the mirrors.
Others took longer, their eyes lingering on the small, unfamiliar kid standing next to Old Joe.
No one spoke to him, not yet. But the questions were there, hanging in the air like the dust caught in the golden afternoon light filtering through the high windows.
A few of the younger boxers, men in their early twenties, exchanged glances before one of them finally stepped closer.
He was tall, lean but solid, his hands already wrapped in white tape, and he carried the confidence of someone who had spent years inside these walls.
"Who's the kid?" he asked, his voice casual but carrying weight.
Killa turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge the man, but said nothing.
Old Joe let out a breath, shaking his head before finally answering.
"New cleaner," he said.
The fighter raised an eyebrow, glancing at the bag, then back at Killa. "That right?"
Old Joe didn't elaborate.
The fighter didn't push. Instead, he smirked, shook his head slightly, and walked off toward the ring, rolling his shoulders as he went.
But others had taken notice. More eyes turned toward Killa, even if briefly, as the energy of the gym picked up.
A speed bag started rattling in the corner. Someone hit the pads with short, sharp pops, their trainer barking instructions.
The heavy thud of gloves against a body protector echoed through the space.
The gym was awake now, alive with movement, sweat, and purpose.
And Killa, standing in the middle of it, felt something stir inside him—something different than when he fought in the streets. This wasn't reckless. This wasn't chaos.
This was control.
And he wanted to understand it.
Killa, after a while, now stood at the edge of the ring, gripping the ropes, his fingers pressing into the coarse fabric.
Something stirred—something unfamiliar yet not unwelcome.
The gym had come alive in the time he had spent cleaning. Fighters moved through their routines, their bodies glistening under the dim overhead lights.
The air was thick with sweat and old leather, the rhythmic sounds of fists striking bags blending with the occasional bark of a trainer's instructions.
But Killa wasn't listening to any of it. His world had narrowed to the two men in the ring.
They didn't move like the kids in the streets, throwing wild punches with no thought beyond anger and impulse.
These men weren't reckless. They were patient, and calculating. One step at a time. One punch at a time.
The man in red trunks twitched his lead hand, testing his opponent's reaction but the other fighter didn't flinch.
He stood his ground, shoulders loose, his breathing steady. Then, in the span of a heartbeat, he slipped inside the jab and landed a sharp right to the ribs. It was quick—surgical.
Killa's hands tightened on the ropes.
The man in red stumbled back, shaking out his arms as if that would rid him of the sting.
The other fighter didn't chase him. He didn't need to. He had already won something—something small but important.
Control.
Killa exhaled slowly.
He had never seen a fight like this. Not in the slums where fists flew without aim, where anger overshadowed instinct. This wasn't just fighting.
This was something else. This was a craft. A sort of art that involved two men, having a conversation with their hands and movements.
Old Joe, standing beside him, didn't say a word. He just watched the boy watch them.
The spar continued. The man in the Red Trunks threw a wild hook, desperate to get something back, but the other man ducked low, stepping off to the side before driving a clean shot into his stomach.
Red trunks gasped, his knees dipping slightly. Not enough to fall. Just enough to feel it.
Killa's heart pounded.
The fight wasn't about power. It wasn't even about speed. Although they helped, that wasn't all.
It was about knowing.
Knowing when to move. When to wait. When to strike.
Killa didn't even realize he had leaned further against the ropes, his entire body drawn toward the ring until Old Joe finally spoke.
"Not what you expected, huh?"
Killa blinked, as if snapping out of a trance. He turned his head slightly, but his fingers stayed wrapped around the rope. "…No."
Joe smirked, a small, knowing thing.
"Come on," the old man said after a moment, patting the boy's shoulder. "Come on it's getting late. I don't want Maria on my neck for keeping you here too long."
Killa didn't move right away. He didn't want to leave but Maria having a go at him for staying too long didn't sound exactly fun.
His eyes lingered on the fighters a second longer before he finally let go of the ropes and stepped back.
But the feeling didn't leave him.
For the first time in his life, Killa wasn't just thinking about winning a fight.
He was thinking about how.