Tuesday, May 3, 2022 – A Broken HomeLyon – 6:00 AM
The day was slowly rising over Lyon, but the Winslow house was trapped in darkness.
A heavy, suffocating silence. Like an invisible cage pressing against every wall, every breath.
In his room, Milo opened his eyes but didn't move.
His body was frozen, paralyzed under the weight of an unbearable reality.
The night before, he had collapsed from exhaustion after pouring all his rage into the punching bag.
His fists, still red and trembling, lay on his sheets.
Everything was different now.
He turned his head toward the slightly open door.
He knew it. This wasn't a nightmare.
His father was gone. For good.
A Home That's No Longer a Home
He finally got up, dragging his body toward the door.
Usually, at this hour, the smell of coffee filled the air.Usually, Richard Winslow was already awake, sitting in the kitchen with a steaming cup in hand, ready to say:
"Come on, champ, up you go."
But today, there was nothing.
Milo slowly descended the stairs.
In the living room, Marco was sitting at the table, shirtless, arms crossed, his gaze empty.
Their father's jacket was still draped over the couch, like a forgotten relic.
Isabelle Winslow, their mother, hadn't even come downstairs.
Milo clenched his fists. He didn't want this silence.
He had to get out of here.
A Sanctuary Made of Blood and SweatWinslow Boxing Gym – 6:45 AM
A fine drizzle was falling as Milo walked through the still-deserted streets.
His feet guided him instinctively, without thought. He didn't know where to go, but he knew where he would end up.
The Winslow Boxing Gym.
He stopped in front of the slightly open door.
There was light inside.
Someone was waiting for him.
A Trainer Who Already Knows Everything
The creak of the door echoed in the empty hall.
The scent of leather, sweat, and past memories instantly filled his nostrils.
On the ring, sitting on a bench with his arms crossed, Stéphane Martel was watching him.
The same cold, piercing gaze Milo had seen in the rare photos of his father in the ring.
Milo stopped dead. He wasn't expecting to see him here at this hour.
Martel slightly raised an eyebrow.
Martel: "I knew you'd come."
Milo didn't answer.
Martel got up slowly, walking toward him.
He studied him, noting the dark circles under his eyes, his battered fists, his shoulders tense with repressed rage.
Then, he sighed.
Martel: "You've already punched a bag until your knuckles bled, haven't you?"
Silence.
But Martel already knew the answer.
He stepped back slightly and nodded toward the ring.
Martel: "Get up there."
The trial was beginning.
The Test of Body and Mind
Milo obeyed without question.
The wood of the ring creaked under his steps as he raised his fists slightly, ready to strike.
But Martel shook his head.
Martel: "Take off your wraps."
Milo frowned.
Milo: "Why?"
Martel: "Because you're not here to punch today."
He took a step back, crossing his arms.
Martel: "You spent the night hitting… But did it make you stronger?"
A surge of anger rose in Milo. He didn't like that question.
Martel: "You want to be a fighter? Then prove to me that you can stay on your feet."
He pointed at a heavy bag on the floor, a thick rope attached to it.
Martel: "Drag that from one end of the gym to the other."
Milo stared at him, perplexed.
Milo: "Is this a test?"
Martel: "It's the foundation."
Martel: "If you have no legs, you have no fists. If your body gives out before your mind, you're nothing in the ring."
A chill of challenge ran through Milo.
He gripped the rope in his hands and pulled.
An Effort That Burns
From the first meter, he understood.
It was much heavier than he had imagined.
His legs burned.His arms trembled.His breath became short, irregular.
Martel: "Breathe, Milo. Control your rhythm."
But Milo refused to quit.
Not after losing his father.Not after promising himself he would get stronger.Not after feeling absolute emptiness.
He clenched his teeth and kept moving forward, pushing his body to its limits.
A First Step Toward the Future
When he reached the other end of the gym, he dropped the rope, collapsing to his knees.
His heart pounded against his ribcage.
His body screamed in pain, but he had no regrets.
Martel watched him in silence.
Then, he slowly nodded.
Martel: "Not bad…"
He paused, then added:
Martel: "Do you think hitting without thinking will make you a champion?"
Martel: "Your father was like that, at first."
Milo froze.
It was the first time someone had compared him to his father.
He slowly lifted his gaze to Martel.
Martel: "Do you really want to be strong?"
Martel: "Then tomorrow… we start for real."
Milo understood now.Martel wasn't here to spare him.He was here to turn him into a monster in the ring.
To be continued…
Can Milo transform his rage into real strength, or will it consume him?
What will Stéphane Martel, his father's mentor, teach him?
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