The beginning of the champ.
The school bell rang that morning — but Rocky was nowhere near the building.
Instead, he stood outside Iron Fist Boxing Gym, gripping the straps of his worn backpack.
His breath misted in the morning air.
He didn't hesitate.
Didn't look back.
He pushed the gym door open.
Inside, the usual morning noise filled the space — thudding gloves, jump ropes snapping against the floor, speed bags clattering like machine guns.
Marco was sipping coffee at the side bench, watching his fighters work.
When he spotted Rocky, he raised an eyebrow.
"Morning, Rexy. Don't you got school?"
Rocky shrugged, stepping in. "I've got more important things to learn."
Marco set down his cup, walking over with a small smirk.
"Alright then, tough guy. Before we waste time — answer me straight. You know even a little real boxing?"
Rocky looked him dead in the eyes. "No."
Marco nodded, serious now.
"Good. That means we're starting clean."
---
Over the next three hours, Marco broke him down — and rebuilt him.
"Footwork first," Marco said. "You don't walk like a human in this ring. You glide like a shadow."
He made Rocky stand in a basic stance. Left foot forward. Right foot behind. Knees bent.
Then the drills began.
Step. Slide. Jab. Reset.
Step. Duck. Pivot. Jab.
Again.
Again.
"Gloves up. Chin tucked. Elbows in. You're not a man. You're a wall of armor."
The pain was instant — his legs burned, his arms ached, but Rocky pushed through it.
Because for the first time in his life… someone was teaching him how to fight right.
---
After two hours, Marco handed him gloves.
"Alright. Time to test your form."
Rocky looked up, surprised. "Already?"
"Not with a killer," Marco smirked. "With someone like you."
He pointed across the gym, where a kid around Rocky's size was shadowboxing.
Brown hair, short, wide stance. Sweating nervously.
"Name's Dylan. Been here two weeks. He's green too. You'll both learn something."
---
The Ring
Rocky stepped in first. Dylan followed, glancing his way, eyes uncertain.
Marco leaned against the ropes. "Three rounds. Light spar. Not a street fight. I wanna see technique."
DING!
The round began.
At first, they circled each other, unsure.
Dylan threw a jab — wide and slow. Rocky blocked it with his glove.
Then Rocky stepped in, mimicking what he drilled that morning — jab to the chin, pivot left.
Dylan countered with a right hook. It grazed Rocky's shoulder.
THUMP.
They both exchanged clumsy punches, feet stumbling slightly.
But then — Rocky focused.
Everything Marco said echoed in his brain.
Guard up.
Stay low.
Pressure.
He began to move smoother.
Slip.
Counter.
Jab.
Back out.
The second round began.
Rocky moved like water now — peek-a-boo defense in full control.
Dylan tried to close distance — but Rocky ducked under a wild swing, planted his feet, and—
BAM!
A body shot slammed into Dylan's ribs.
Dylan let out a choked breath and staggered back.
Marco's voice boomed across the gym. "There we go, Rexy!"
Rocky kept his stance, but didn't charge.
He wasn't angry.
He wasn't wild.
He was calm.
Calculating.
The third round began. Dylan was hesitant now, guarding tight.
Rocky pressured, not with rage — but with rhythm. Left jab. Right jab. Fake. Hook.
CRACK!
One clean right hook clipped Dylan's cheek, knocking his guard aside.
Dylan stumbled and fell to one knee.
DING!
Round over.
Marco walked into the ring, nodding. "Help him up."
Rocky reached down, offered a hand. Dylan took it.
Both boys breathed heavy, gloves shaking.
Marco looked at Rocky.
"You didn't fight like a beginner. You fought like a student."
Rocky panted. "Because I'm done surviving. I'm here to become something."
Marco's grin returned.
"You will, Rexy. You keep moving like this — and the world's gonna learn that name."
---
That night
Rocky sat alone in his room, knuckles sore, ribs bruised.
But he didn't cry.
He smiled.
For the first time… he'd tasted respect.
Not fear.
Not pity.
Respect — earned with blood and sweat.
And he would chase that feeling…
Until the whole world knew:
Rexy was coming.
"You're not just gonna fight like a boxer, Rexy," Marco growled.
He pointed at Rocky's chest.
"You're gonna look like one."
Rocky blinked, exhausted already from sparring drills. "Huh?"
Marco stepped closer, dropping the bomb.
"Starting tomorrow... strength training. Real one. No breaks. No shortcuts. We're building you from bones to beast. You want a boxer's body?"
Rocky nodded.
"Then get ready to suffer."
---
Day 1 — The Foundation
The next morning, the gym opened at 5:00 AM.
Rocky was already outside by 4:30.
It began with a 6-mile run. No music. No water breaks. Just the sound of his shoes slamming concrete.
"Shadowbox while running!" Marco shouted from a bike beside him. "I don't care if your lungs are on fire. Punch the damn air!"
Rocky's arms flailed, breaths turning ragged.
By mile four, his legs screamed.
By mile five, his vision blurred.
By six… he collapsed in the alley behind the gym.
Marco didn't even blink. "Get up. You're not done."
---
Inside the Gym
"Push-ups. 10 sets. 50 reps each."
Rocky's arms trembled by set three.
Then:
100 sit-ups.
100 squats.
3-minute planks.
15-minute jump rope.
No rest between.
He vomited behind the punching bag by noon.
Marco just tossed him a towel. "That's your body rejecting weakness. Keep going."
---
Day 3 — Pain is the Teacher
His chest burned. His back ached. His knuckles throbbed from countless rounds on the heavy bag.
Then Marco introduced the sledgehammer drill.
"See that tire?"
Rocky looked at the massive black tractor tire in the corner.
"Hit it with this." Marco handed him a 20-pound sledgehammer. "One hundred times. Both arms. No rest."
Each swing rattled his bones.
His palms blistered. Blood mixed with sweat.
But he didn't stop.
Because every swing screamed one truth:
This pain is mine. This pain will save me.
---
Day 6 — The Boxing Baptism
Morning runs. Strength circuits. Hours of bag work. Sparring.
Rocky's body was breaking down.
But his mind?
Stronger than ever.
He started moving differently.
Faster. Heavier. Smarter.
Veins began to rise along his forearms.
His shoulders — once narrow and frail — widened with solid muscle.
His punches echoed louder in the gym now — like thunder cracking through concrete.
Marco began calling him "Monster Pup."
Still Rexy.
But evolving.
---
Week 2 — No Mercy
"Today's 'everything' day," Marco announced.
Rocky didn't ask.
He simply endured.
Schedule:
5:00 AM Run (10 miles)
Shadowboxing with wrist weights
Agility ladder + cone drills
Medicine ball throws (30 minutes)
Tire flips across the gym (10 sets)
Weightlifting: deadlifts, squats, bench (5x5 sets heavy)
Mitt work (12 rounds)
Heavy bag burnout (6 rounds non-stop punches)
Sparring (3 rounds — advanced boxer)
His lungs gave up before his legs.
His shoulders gave up before his fists.
But he refused to fall.
He pushed until Marco stepped in himself. "Stop. You'll die if you go again."
Rocky looked up through a haze of sweat and blood.
"I'm not afraid of death anymore," he muttered.
Marco smirked.
"Good. That means you're ready."
---
After One Month
Rocky stood in front of the mirror shirtless.
And he didn't recognize himself.
His chest was sculpted. Abs tight like carved stone. Arms defined. Legs thick with power.
Not huge like a bodybuilder — but explosive.
His back looked like it belonged to a predator.
His jaw was sharper. His eyes darker.
He didn't look like a boy anymore.
He looked like a fighter.
Marco stepped behind him, arms crossed.
"You're almost there."
Rocky turned. "Almost?"
Marco nodded. "Your body's ready. Now we train your heart… for war."
The gym was quiet, the only sound being the steady rhythm of a speed bag in the corner.
Marco stood in front of Rocky, arms crossed, eyes locked on his student.
"You've built the body," he said. "Now choose your style. Pick one, and you'll master it — every move, every reflex, every instinct."
Rocky paused, heart thumping. He already knew the answer.
"The style of Mike Tyson…" he said. "Peek-a-boo."
Marco smiled slowly. "The Pitbull of Brooklyn, huh?"
He turned, walked toward the center ring.
"You got guts, Rexy. Peek-a-boo ain't just punching. It's war."
---
The Next Day: The Transformation Begins
Marco stood beside Rocky with a small mirror, placing it in front of him.
"You want to learn Tyson's style? Start with your face."
"What?"
"Look at your jaw. Your eyes. Learn how your head moves. Because Peek-a-boo is all about this…"
Marco stepped in.
Slip. Bob. Weave. Step. Explode.
He moved like lightning, hands high, gloves tight against his cheeks, swaying his head left, right, forward.
Then bam! — a sudden jab into the air. Then bam! bam! — two hooks, pivoting like a machine.
"This is not dancing," Marco said. "This is pressure. Defense that's always moving forward."
---
Days of Hellish Drills
Every hour of Rocky's training now changed:
Mirror drills: Slipping left, right, back, forward.
Tennis ball on a string: Reacting to movement, building instinct.
Jump rope with head movement: No looking forward — constant ducking and weaving.
Wall drills: Standing nose an inch from a wall, slipping side to side without moving backward.
Jab drills: Learning Cus D'Amato's piston jab — short, fast, accurate like a bullet.
Marco barked, "Your gloves never drop! Your chin always tucks! Your feet don't stop!"
Each jab from Rocky cracked louder.
His hips rolled with every punch.
His footwork began to glide — short steps, always ready to attack.
Still, Marco wasn't satisfied.
"Again!"
---
One Week Later: The Lesson
The gym was packed with boxers — beginners and veterans.
Marco stepped into the ring, tossing off his hoodie. His body was lean, carved, but terrifyingly relaxed.
"Rexy," he called. "Get in here."
Rocky's heart raced.
"You're gonna spar me."
Gasps from around the gym.
"Coach never spars anyone," someone whispered.
Rocky swallowed and stepped in.
Gloves up. Peek-a-boo stance. Breathing sharp.
He locked eyes with Marco.
DING!
Rocky charged first — jab, slip, hook — fast, powerful.
But Marco?
Untouchable.
He weaved under Rocky's punch like it was in slow motion. Slipped left. Parried right.
Then — thud! — a quick shot to Rocky's ribs.
He winced, turned, and tried again — jab-cross-hook!
Miss. Miss. Counter. BAM!
A light uppercut tapped his jaw. Enough to drop him to one knee.
The gym went silent.
Marco stared down at him. "You're not ready."
Rocky panted hard, lips bloody. "I… I trained…"
Marco stepped back. "You trained hard. But you trained wild. Peek-a-boo ain't wild. It's controlled chaos."
He tossed Rocky a towel. "Now get back up. Let's fix your foundation."
---
The Real Lessons Begin
That night, training restarted from zero.
Marco slowed everything down.
"How do you approach? What's your angle? Where's your guard? What happens if he jabs and steps left? What if he uppercuts? How do you reset under pressure?"
Each question was followed by more drills.
Slipping into angles.
Pivoting inside opponent's punches.
Countering with short uppercuts and tight hooks.
Rolling off the opponent's jab.
Rocky stopped punching for days — he just moved his head.
Marco said, "Until your neck hurts, you're not doing it right."
---
Three Weeks Later
Rexy was moving like a real threat now.
His punches were tighter. His footwork sharper. His slips and ducks were almost impossible to read.
He still got hit.
But less.
He still lost balance.
But not as often.
And every day, he'd step back in the ring.
Every time he sparred, someone would say, "Damn… that's Tyson's rhythm."
But Rexy wasn't trying to be Mike Tyson.
He was becoming his own beast.
---
End of Chapter: One Step Closer
That night, Rocky sat in front of the mirror again. He didn't smile. He didn't flex.
He just looked at himself. At the fire in his eyes. At the bruises across his ribs. The tape across his knuckles.
And quietly whispered:
"Soon…"
"...no one will ever throw me away again."