The next morning, Blaze woke up before the sun.
For once, the alarm didn't have to scream him out of bed. His body was already aching from yesterday's pathetic excuse for pushups, but that was good. Pain was good. Pain meant he was doing something different.
His reflection in the cracked mirror looked like a stranger. Same messy black hair. Same sharp jawline wasted on a soft frame. Same eyes, except now—something else.A spark.
He tied his worn sneakers — soles nearly flat — and stepped outside. The cold morning air bit at his face. The city wasn't awake yet. Just silent cars parked along the cracked sidewalks and a single old man sweeping outside a corner store.
Blaze started running.
Well—jogging.
After two blocks, his lungs were on fire.After five, his legs started to shake.By ten blocks, he wanted to stop.
Everything inside him screamed: "Go home. Sleep. Eat trash. Who cares?"And for a moment—he almost listened.
Then he thought of Kyle. He thought of the eviction notice still hanging like a death sentence on his front door. He thought of the heavy silence that filled his room every night.
And he ran anyway.
By the time he got back to his place, Blaze collapsed on the floor, chest heaving, arms spread out like a dead man. Sweat soaked through his shirt.
Ten pushups.Eleven tomorrow.
Afternoon
Work was brutal. The garage was always loud, always hot, always smelling of gasoline and metal and burnt coffee. His boss, Frank, never missed a chance to throw in a comment about Blaze's work ethic.
"Hey, Carter!" Frank barked, wiping grease on a rag. "If you moved as fast on the job as you did quitting school, we'd be rich by now."
The other guys laughed. Blaze didn't. Not anymore.
He didn't argue. He didn't explain. They weren't going to understand.Not yet.
Evening
Blaze found himself standing outside the old boxing gym three neighborhoods over.
The paint was peeling, and the sign hung crooked. Through the cracked glass windows, he saw people training—hitting bags, jumping rope, sparring.
He almost turned away.Almost.
"I'm not ready. I don't belong here."
But then he remembered something:
"If you wait until you're ready, you'll never start."
He pushed the door open.
The smell of sweat, leather, and determination hit him in the face.
A gruff voice from behind the front desk growled, "What do you want?"
Blaze looked up.Mason Quinn.Broad shoulders. White hair buzzed short. Face like broken concrete.
Blaze swallowed.
"I wanna train."
Mason stared at him. Then, slowly, a smile curled on the old fighter's lips—half amusement, half pity.
"You?" Mason grunted. "You don't look like a fighter. You look like a quitter."
Blaze didn't blink. Didn't flinch.Didn't smile either.
"Yeah," Blaze said quietly. "I used to."
Mason's grin widened. "Alright then. Tomorrow morning. Six sharp. Don't be late. And bring cash. Nothing's free here but the bruises."
Blaze nodded once.
As he turned to leave, Mason added, "You won't last a week."
Blaze glanced back over his shoulder.
"Good," he said. "I'm not here to last. I'm here to change."