Charlie racked the weights with a heavy clang, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes, but he barely noticed. His muscles burned from the punishing workout—deadlifts that strained his back, squats that turned his legs to mush, and planks that left him shaking on the mat. Two months into this relentless grind, and his body was starting to reflect it: less fat clinging to his frame, faint lines of muscle emerging in his arms and shoulders, a flicker of strength he'd never thought possible. But his mind was a different beast—tangled, foggy, worn thin by the endless cycle of effort and pain.
He wiped his brow with the edge of his towel, the damp fabric sticking to his hand. His thoughts weren't on the weights or the gym's sterile hum—they were on her. The blonde girl at the counter. Her bright smile from earlier, the way she'd handed him that water bottle like he'd suddenly earned her attention, gnawed at him. It wasn't the kindness that grated—it was the timing. Two months ago, when he'd shuffled in here dripping sweat and gasping for air, she'd barely glanced his way. Now? Now she was all smiles and compliments. "You've changed a lot. You look great." The words rang in his head, hollow and sharp, like a spotlight he hadn't asked for.
The System's voice sliced through his haze, calm and insistent: "Confrontation—delivered respectfully—can be a tool for personal growth."
Charlie snorted, slinging the towel over his shoulder. "Yeah, right," he muttered under his breath. "Respectfully. Like that's gonna make this less awkward." But the idea stuck. He didn't like how she'd flipped a switch, how her friendliness seemed tied to his shrinking waistline. It wasn't real—not to him. And the more he dwelled on it, the more it festered, a quiet itch he couldn't ignore.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the weights lined up against the wall, their cold metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. His hands clenched into fists, then relaxed. "Fine, System," he grumbled, his voice barely audible over the distant clank of machines. "But if this blows up in my face, I'm blaming you."
With a deep breath, he turned and shuffled toward the counter. Each step felt heavier than the last, his sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor. The gym was quieter now—most of the morning crowd had filtered out, leaving only a few stragglers lifting in the corners. The girl was there, perched on a stool behind the counter, scrolling through her phone. Her blonde hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and her workout gear hugged her frame in a way that made Charlie painfully aware of his own oversized, sweat-soaked shirt.
She looked up as he approached, her face lighting up with that practiced smile. "Hey, Charlie! Done already? You're killing it today—"
"I need to say something," he cut in, his voice low but steady. He gripped the towel in both hands, twisting it like a lifeline. His heart thudded against his ribs, but he forced the words out, his eyes fixed on hers. "You've been nice lately, and… I get it. I look better now. I'm not as big, not as sweaty. But you ignored me for months. Back when I first started, when I could barely lift anything, you didn't even look at me. I don't like that. It feels fake."
Her smile froze, her eyes widening in a flash of surprise. For a split second, she just stared at him, her phone forgotten in her hand. Then she let out a nervous laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh, uh… wow, okay. I didn't mean it like that. I was just busy before, you know? Work stuff, crazy shifts. I'm sorry if it came off weird. I think you're cool now—well, I mean, always were, just… yeah. I didn't mean to upset you."
Charlie's dull, tired eyes locked onto hers. The apology hung between them, flimsy and half-formed. He could see it—her words were a reflex, a quick patch to smooth over the moment. She didn't really get it, didn't really care. She was sorry he'd called her out, not sorry for how she'd acted. But the weight of his exhaustion, the endless grind of his days, dulled any spark of anger he might've felt. Time would pass. People would move on. It didn't matter.
"Yeah, okay," he mumbled, his voice flat. He shifted his weight, turning away. "Thanks for the water earlier."
She blinked, her smile twitching back into place, though it didn't reach her eyes. "No problem! Keep up the good work, huh?"
He didn't answer, just shuffled toward the lockers. His shoulders slumped, his steps slow and deliberate. The System chimed softly in his mind, its tone annoyingly calm.
"Well done, Charlie. Clarity gained."
He snorted faintly, shoving his towel into his gym bag. "Clarity, huh? Feels more like a waste of breath. She didn't even mean it."
"Her intent is irrelevant. You spoke your truth. That is progress."
Charlie zipped his bag shut, slinging it over his shoulder. "Progress," he muttered bitterly. "Sure. Whatever." The confrontation hadn't lifted his spirits—it just left him drained, another weight on his already burdened mind.
The bus ride home was a blur. Charlie slumped against the window, the cool glass pressing against his cheek. The seats around him stayed empty, as always, but he didn't mind. More room, he told himself, a weak attempt at positivity that barely stuck. The city rolled by outside—gray buildings, flickering streetlights, people hurrying through their lives. He barely registered it. His body ached from the gym, his mind was foggy from the sleepless nights, and the day wasn't even close to over. Night loomed ahead, and with it, the faceless beast that haunted his dreams.
When he stumbled into his basement, the familiar creak of the stairs greeted him like an old enemy. He dropped his bag by the door and collapsed onto the couch, his legs sprawling out in front of him. The dim glow of his nightlight cast long shadows across the room, the air thick with the faint musty smell of damp concrete. He stared blankly at the ceiling, his hands resting limp on his lap.
"Six days," he whispered to himself. "Six days of this hell, and I'm already a zombie." The workouts, the cooking, the Sleep Fighting—it was relentless. His body was holding up, barely, thanks to the System's stamina perks, but his mind was fraying at the edges. Every night, he felt bones break, blood spill, pain sear through him. Every morning, he woke up whole, but the echoes lingered, a phantom ache that wouldn't let go.
He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to shake the fog. "Gotta cook," he muttered, pushing himself up with a groan. His parents would be home soon, and dinner was his job now—his task, his reward, his anchor in this chaos. He trudged up the stairs, each step a small battle against his own exhaustion.
In the kitchen, he moved with robotic precision. He pulled out ingredients—salmon fillets from the fridge, quinoa from the pantry, a bag of broccoli he'd prepped earlier in the week. The System's simulation flickered to life in his vision, guiding his hands as he seasoned the fish with salt, pepper, and a dash of garlic powder. The sizzle of the pan filled the silence, the sharp scent of cooking meat cutting through the stale air of the house. He worked methodically, his mind drifting as he chopped the broccoli, the knife thudding softly against the cutting board.
The front door creaked open, and his mother's voice floated in, bright and curious. "Charlie? Oh, something smells good!" She stepped into the kitchen, her purse slung over her shoulder, her face lighting up as she saw him at the stove. "Look at you, hard at work."
He glanced over his shoulder, managing a faint nod. "Hey, Mom. Almost done."
She set her purse on the counter, leaning against it as she watched him. Her eyes softened, taking in his figure—thinner now, less burdened by the bulk he'd carried for years. "You're different, you know," she said, her tone warm. "I can see it. All this cooking, whatever you're doing—it's changing you. I'm proud of you, honey."
Charlie's hands paused over the pan, the spatula hovering mid-turn. The words hit him softly, a quiet warmth cutting through his haze. "Thanks, Mum," he mumbled, focusing back on the salmon.
Harold came in next, loosening his tie as he stepped into the kitchen. "Smells like a restaurant in here," he said with a grin, clapping Charlie lightly on the shoulder. "You're doing great, son. Keep it up—we're rooting for you."
Charlie's lips twitched into a small, tired smile. "Thanks, Dad." The encouragement settled over him like a blanket, simple but steady, and for a moment, the weight on his shoulders felt a little lighter.
They sat down to eat, the table set with plates of steaming salmon, fluffy quinoa, and crisp broccoli. The meal passed with light chatter—his parents talking about their day, Charlie nodding along, his responses short but present. When they finished, he cleared the table, the System chiming in with its reward: $100 added to your savings. He pocketed the virtual cash without a word and dragged himself downstairs, his legs heavy as lead.
Collapsing onto his bed, Charlie stared at the ceiling, the dim light casting faint patterns across the cracked plaster. Sleep pulled at him, but he knew what awaited—the ring, the pain, the faceless bastard who mocked him every night. He closed his eyes, bracing himself.
The dream ring materialized around him, the ropes taut and the lights blinding. The faceless man stood across from him, his iron skin gleaming, his blank face a void of menace. The bell rang.
Charlie barely raised his fists before the onslaught began. A jab snapped his head back, the crack of impact echoing in his skull. A hook slammed into his ribs, stealing his breath. A kick sent him sprawling to the mat, his dream-body screaming in agony. He tried to fight back, throwing clumsy punches that grazed the man's shoulder, but it was like hitting a wall. The faceless beast countered with a brutal uppercut, and Charlie crashed down hard, the mat cold against his cheek.
Round after round, the beating dragged on. He scrambled to his feet each time, his legs trembling, his fists swinging wildly. A jab here, a weak hook there—nothing landed with force, but he kept going. By the eighth round, he was a wreck—blood trickling from his dream-mouth, his body shaking with every shallow breath. The faceless man loomed over him, unrelenting, and delivered a final blow—a knee to his chest that sent him sprawling once more.
He woke with a gasp, clutching his chest, his heart racing. His real body bore no marks, just the lingering ache of yesterday's workout, but his mind throbbed with the memory of pain. Sweat soaked his sheets, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts.
"Progress: Combat instinct 0.07%," the System announced, its voice infuriatingly cheerful.
Charlie flopped back onto the pillow, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Great. Another night of getting crushed. Thanks for nothing."
Charlie dragged himself out of bed, his body protesting every move. The mirror caught his eye as he shuffled to the bathroom, and he paused, staring at his reflection. His face was gaunt, the dark circles under his eyes like bruises, but there was something else—his skin was clearer, his jaw a little sharper. The Better Genes Potion was working, slowly chiseling away at the old Charlie. He didn't linger on it, though. There was no energy for pride, not today.
In the kitchen, he threw together a quick breakfast—oatmeal with a scoop of protein powder, a banana sliced on top. He ate standing up, leaning against the counter, his parents already gone for work. The house was silent, the early morning light filtering through the blinds in thin, pale streaks. He chewed mechanically, his mind drifting to the night before—the faceless man's fists, the way they mocked him with every blow.
He grabbed his gym bag and headed for the park, the cool air biting at his face as he stepped outside. The old man was there, as always, perched on his bench with a bag of breadcrumbs. He waved lazily as Charlie approached. "Morning, kid."
"Morning," Charlie grunted, dropping his bag on the grass. The simulation flickered to life in his vision, a glowing figure guiding his jabs and hooks. His form was still sloppy—shoulders too tense, feet dragging—but there was a hint of rhythm now, a faint echo of the boxing videos he'd started watching obsessively every night. Ali's footwork, Tyson's hooks—he couldn't replicate them yet, but they were sinking in, piece by piece.
The old man watched him for a while, his brow furrowed in quiet curiosity. Charlie didn't notice, too focused on the simulation, his fists cutting through the air with growing intent. His breath came in sharp puffs, his arms burning as he pushed through the routine—jab, cross, hook, repeat. When he finished, panting and sweat-soaked, he slumped onto the bench beside the old man, wiping his face with his sleeve.
"Getting better, huh?" the old man said, tossing a crumb to a waiting duck.
Charlie shrugged, catching his breath. "Maybe. Still feel like an idiot doing it out here."
The old man chuckled, a low, raspy sound. "Better than sitting around doing nothing. Keep at it, kid. You're tougher than you look."
"Yeah," Charlie muttered, staring at his hands. They were rougher now, calloused from the weights and the endless punches. "Guess so."
That afternoon, he sat on his couch, scrolling through his phone. The idea had been brewing for days—something to take his training indoors, away from prying eyes and the old man's quiet stares. "System," he said, his voice firm. "I need gear. A punching bag for my room and a jump rope. Where's my money at?"
"Current savings: $8,100 after expenses," the System replied. "A basic punching bag with stand: $150. Jump rope: $10. Affordable."
Charlie nodded, his fingers already tapping at the screen to place the order. "Good. I'm tired of looking like an idiot in the park. Time to bring this fight home."
The System chimed approvingly. "A wise choice, Charlie. Equipment will enhance your training efficiency."
He leaned back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Yeah, well, let's hope it helps me survive your damn dream fights." He paused, his smirk fading as he thought of the faceless man—those iron fists, that blank stare. "I'm gonna figure you out," he muttered under his breath. "One way or another."