The mop handle left a red mark across Taiga's palm. His arms ached from scrubbing mats, his legs sore from hauling buckets back and forth. He wasn't sure what burned more—his muscles or his pride.
"Done whining yet?" Genji's voice rang across the gym.
Taiga dropped the mop with a thud. "I didn't say a word."
"Good. Then maybe you're ready to learn something."
Genji nodded toward the ring. "Step in."
Taiga blinked, surprised. "You serious?"
"You want to fight? Then show me you can throw a jab without flailing like a drunk man."
Taiga didn't hesitate. He rolled under the ropes, bare fists clenched. Genji tossed him a pair of old gloves.
"They're heavy," Taiga muttered, sliding them on.
"They're supposed to be."
Genji climbed in slowly, wearing only his black trainer's jacket and taped hands. He didn't bother with gloves. "All right. Jab."
Taiga took a stance, left foot forward, chin tucked slightly.
He launched a jab.
"Too wide," Genji barked. "Again."
Taiga adjusted. Jabbed again.
"Sloppy."
Again.
"Wrong shoulder rotation."
Again.
"Too slow."
Again.
It went on for minutes. Dozens of jabs. Taiga's arm throbbed, sweat soaking through his tank top. His jaw clenched tighter with every correction. Genji was like a machine—precise, sharp, and completely unimpressed.
Taiga snapped a jab harder, faster this time. His knuckles grazed Genji's palm.
"Better," Genji said. "Now again. A hundred more times."
Taiga's shoulders sagged. "A hundred?"
Genji smirked. "You want to be a boxer? Then learn to jab in your sleep. Everyone wants to throw haymakers. But real fights? Real fighters? They win with jabs. Jab controls the distance. Jab breaks rhythm. Jab wins fights."
"This isn't your usual street fight, your experience won't make difference"
From across the gym, Masaki glanced over between rounds on the heavy bag. The younger kid working the speed bag paused, watching too.
Taiga wiped sweat from his brow. His knuckles burned, but he kept jabbing.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By the end of the session, Taiga collapsed onto the bench, arms limp at his sides. His gloves felt like lead bricks.
Genji stood nearby, silent for a moment. Then he tossed Taiga a water bottle.
"You didn't quit. That's something."
Taiga looked up, panting. "You're enjoying this."
"I'm seeing what's real and what's just bark," Genji replied. "You've got fire. That's good. But fire without form just burns everything—including yourself."
Taiga drank in silence. The gym had emptied out, except for the speed-bag kid still finishing a cooldown.
"That kid," Taiga asked. "What's his name?"
Genji raised an eyebrow. "That's Rikuya. Fastest hands in the gym. Smarter than he looks. He's been with us for two years."
Taiga leaned back, exhaling. "He any good?"
Genji gave a rare chuckle. "He'll outpoint you five rounds straight if you go in blind."
Taiga's eyes narrowed.
Genji noted the shift and nodded to himself.
"Come back tomorrow. 6 a.m. sharp. If you're late, you clean the toilets."
Taiga groaned. "You serious?"
"I'm always serious."
As Taiga walked out of the gym under the dim streetlights, the card from before still in his pocket, something in his chest stirred. It wasn't just exhaustion—it was the first spark of direction.
For the first time in a long while, the fists he'd grown up using weren't just weapons.
They were becoming tools.