The adrenaline from the street brawl still pumped through Jason's veins as he walked home. His fists ached—not from pain, but from the desperate desire for more. The sheer ease with which he had dismantled those guys only confirmed what he already knew. I'm a monster now.
That night, he barely slept. His mind buzzed with excitement. Tomorrow, he'd find a boxing gym and finally test his true potential.
---
The next day, Jason walked into Iron Fist Boxing Gym. The air was thick with sweat and testosterone, and the constant rhythm of gloves smacking heavy bags filled the space. Fighters of all skill levels were training, but Jason's eyes immediately locked onto the ring in the center, where two boxers were sparring.
"New guy?" a gruff voice asked.
Jason turned to see a stocky, bald man with a scar over his eye. His aura screamed coach. "Yeah. Jason Carter. Just moved into town."
"Coach Harris," the man introduced himself. His scrutinizing gaze flickered over Jason's physique. "You ever boxed before?"
Jason hesitated. Not exactly. Not in a ring, anyway. "A bit. Mostly street fights."
Harris scoffed. "That won't get you far here, kid. Boxing's a different beast. You ready to get humbled?"
Jason smirked. We'll see about that. "I'm ready."
---
The warm-up was a formality. Jump ropes, shadow boxing, and bag work—Jason breezed through them, his movements unnaturally fluid. His hands felt like sledgehammers, his footwork impossibly light. Fighters around him began to notice.
"Damn, that new kid's got hands," one murmured.
"Yeah, but bag work ain't the same as getting hit," another responded.
Harris approached, his curiosity piqued. "Alright, Carter. You're warmed up. Let's see what you've really got. Step in the ring."
Jason felt a wicked grin tug at his lips. Finally.
---
His opponent was Marcus, a seasoned amateur with a 20-2 record. The man was built like a tank and clearly confident. "Hope you're ready, new kid," Marcus sneered.
Jason just smiled. "Likewise."
The bell rang.
Marcus charged, throwing a textbook jab aimed at Jason's nose. Jason didn't just dodge—he disappeared from Marcus's range, sidestepping with supernatural grace. Before Marcus could reset, Jason's fist shot out like a piston. CRACK! Marcus's head snapped back, blood immediately dripping from his nose.
The gym fell silent.
"What the hell…" someone muttered.
Marcus stumbled but recovered, his pride wounded. "Lucky shot." He lunged again, throwing a wild right hook. Jason's mind processed it like slow motion. He slipped under the punch, barely grazing his cheek, and countered with a devastating uppercut to the liver.
THUD! Marcus crumpled, gasping for air.
The gym exploded.
"Jesus Christ!"
"Did you see that speed?"
"Who is this kid?"
Harris watched, his mouth slightly agape. He had trained fighters for over two decades—but never had he seen that. Jason didn't just fight; he moved like a predator, his every strike precise and bone-crushing.
Marcus wheezed from the canvas. "H-how the fuck…?"
Jason simply smiled, his heart still screaming for more violence. This is what I was born for now.
Harris approached, his tone quieter now. "Kid… where the hell did you learn to fight like that?"
Jason shrugged. "Just a bit of natural talent, I guess."
Harris stared at him for a long moment. Then, he grinned. "Alright, Carter. You keep showing me that, and you'll go pro faster than anyone I've ever seen."
Jason's smile widened. Pro? He hadn't even thought that far ahead. But now the idea burned in his mind. Championships. Fame. Recognition. And the thrill of violence.
"Sign me up," Jason said darkly.
---
The beast inside him was only beginning to stir. And soon, the world would know his name.