Charlie stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the early morning light spilling through the small window above the sink, casting a soft glow across his reflection. It was the last day of summer vacation—Day 90 of what he'd dubbed "Hell Summer"—and the figure staring back at him was almost unrecognizable. He peeled off his oversized shirt, letting it drop to the tiled floor, and took a long, hard look at himself. His body had transformed in ways he hadn't dared to imagine three months ago. The thick layer of fat that once clung to his torso was mostly gone, melted away by the relentless grind of workouts and the Pumped Perk's boosted fat-burning. His belly, once a heavy slab that jiggled with every step, was now a flatter expanse, though loose skin hung in soft folds around his midsection and arms—a testament to the rapid weight loss, nearly 40 kilograms shed since June. His shoulders were broader, his arms defined with lean muscle that flexed subtly as he moved. His chest, once buried under rolls, now showed the faint outline of pecs, earned through countless dumbbell presses and planks. He ran a hand over his smooth, hairless torso, the last traces of body hair zapped away by the final laser session two weeks prior. His legs were sturdier, too, the result of squats and jump rope sessions that had turned his wobbly strides into something solid, purposeful. His face had sharpened—cheekbones emerging, jawline more pronounced, the Better Genes Potion smoothing out the blemishes and softening the rough edges of his old self. At 17, he was still growing into this new version of himself, his height inching toward 1.85 meters over the next few years thanks to the potion he'd chugged months back. He wasn't a model, not yet—maybe never—but he wasn't the "Sludge" anymore either. He stood taller, straighter, his dull eyes flickering with a quiet pride as he muttered, "Not bad, huh?"
He stepped back, flexing awkwardly in the mirror, his loose skin shifting with the motion. It wasn't perfect—those sagging patches made him wince—but it was proof. Proof of every grueling day, every punch thrown, every meal cooked. He smirked faintly, turning to grab a fresh shirt from the pile on the sink. "One more day," he said to himself, his voice steady. "One more day, and then school. Let's see what they think of this."
Downstairs, the kitchen was already alive with the scent of sizzling meat. Charlie had taken over cooking duties full-time these past weeks, and today was no exception. He'd splurged on better ingredients lately—higher-quality cuts of beef, fresh vegetables, whole grains—stuff his parents could never afford on their own. Harold and Marge worked long hours at low-paying jobs—his mother pulling $800 a month in a factory assembly line, his father scraping by with another $800 selling door-to-door, sometimes tacking on overtime that left him dragging his feet home after dark. Together, they barely cleared $1600 a month, enough to keep the lights on and food on the table, but not much else. Charlie had changed that. His savings from the System's rewards had ballooned over the summer—$100 a night for cooking, plus milestone bonuses from the gym and shadow-boxing tasks. He checked his balance with the System as he flipped a steak in the pan. "Current savings: $11,250 after expenses," the System reported, its voice crisp in his mind. He'd spent a chunk on the punching bag ($150), jump rope ($10), gym membership ($30 for three months), protein powder ($120 over the summer), and now pricier groceries—leaner meats, organic produce, supplements—to keep his family fed right. That left him with a hefty sum, more money than he'd ever dreamed of holding at 17.
He'd started slipping cash to his parents a month ago, calling it "tournament winnings" from online gaming. "I've been killing it in these competitions," he'd lied, handing them $500 one night after dinner. Their eyes had widened, disbelief warring with gratitude as they took the bills. "Charlie, this… how?" Marge had stammered, clutching the money like it might vanish. "Just good at games, Mom," he'd shrugged, keeping his tone casual. "I'll keep it coming, too—steady cash, maybe a grand a month if I play smart." Harold had clapped him on the back, grinning. "That's my boy. Didn't know you had it in you." They'd bought it, or at least pretended to, and Charlie didn't care as long as it worked. With his "winnings," he'd convinced them to cut back their hours—Harold dropping the overtime, Marge taking shorter shifts. Now they slept more, their faces less drawn, their steps lighter. The better food helped, too—steaks instead of cheap hamburger, fresh greens instead of canned mush. Charlie had even dragged them to Muscle Macho Gym last week, signing them up for a family plan with his savings. "You're always tired," he'd argued. "This'll keep you strong. Plus, I need workout buddies." They'd grumbled at first—Harold muttering about "fancy machines," Marge worried about looking out of place—but after one session, they were hooked. Harold loved the treadmill, Marge found the stretching classes soothing, and Charlie felt a quiet satisfaction watching them thrive.
As he plated the steaks with roasted potatoes and asparagus, a thought struck him. "System," he said, wiping his hands on a towel, "those potions I got—the Better Genes one, the height thing—could I get some for my parents? They're beat up from work. I want them healthier, stronger." The System's voice hummed in response, a faint note of intrigue in its tone. "Potions are available through the System Store, Charlie. However, access is restricted until you reach 10% evolution progress." He frowned, setting the plates on the table. "I'm at 5% now, right? How do I unlock it faster?" The System paused, then replied, "Complete higher-tier tasks, achieve combat mastery, and surpass physical milestones. The store offers enhancements—potions, gear, perks—but requires significant progress." Charlie's eyes narrowed. "Show me what's in there. Just a peek." A translucent screen flickered to life in his vision, shimmering with a list of items: Vitality Potion (restores health, boosts stamina, $500), Strength Elixir (increases muscle growth, $750), Agility Boost (enhances reflexes, $600), Resilience Tonic (improves durability, $800). Descriptions glowed beside each one, promising benefits that made his mouth water. But every entry was locked, grayed out with a bold "Access Denied" stamp. "Damn it," he muttered, clenching his fist. "I'd kill for a Vitality Potion for Mom and Dad. They deserve it." The System's voice was firm. "Earn it, Charlie. Your progress benefits them as well." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. Guess I've got more work to do."
His parents came home as he finished setting the table, their laughter drifting in from the hallway. "Smells like a feast again," Harold called, stepping into the kitchen with a grin. Marge followed, her factory apron slung over her arm. "You're spoiling us, Charlie," she said, her eyes warm as she took in the spread. "Spoiling you's the point," he shot back, managing a tired smile. They sat down, digging into the meal with relish, and for a while, the kitchen was filled with the clink of forks and easy chatter—Harold recounting a funny story from the gym, Marge praising the steak's tenderness. Charlie ate quietly, his mind half on the food, half on the locked store screen he couldn't shake. 10% evolution, he thought. I'll get there. For them.
Night fell, and Charlie retreated to his basement, the familiar creak of the stairs under his lighter frame a quiet reminder of how far he'd come. He sat on his bed, the punching bag swaying faintly in the corner from his earlier session, the jump rope coiled beside it. For weeks, he'd trained here—hours of jabs and hooks against the bag, endless skips with the rope until his calves burned. Every night, he'd watched boxing videos—Ali's graceful dance, Tyson's savage power—analyzing moves, replaying them in his head. The faceless man in his dreams had haunted him, mocked him, using those same boxing techniques with cruel precision. Quick jabs to his face, hooks that bruised his ribs, uppercuts that snapped his head back—it was a taunt, a mirror of his own style turned against him. Charlie had studied, thought, planned. Tonight, the last night before school, he'd face that beast again. "I'm ready," he muttered, lying back and closing his eyes. "Let's do this."
Sleep took him, and the dream ring rose around him, a stark arena of ropes and blinding lights. The faceless man stood opposite, his iron skin glinting, his blank visage radiating menace. Charlie clenched his fists, his heart pounding as he squared his shoulders. The bell rang, and the fight erupted. The faceless man lunged, a jab slicing through the air toward Charlie's face. He ducked, barely, the wind of it brushing his cheek, and threw a wild counter—his fist grazed the man's chest, a weak tap against that unyielding frame. The beast retaliated instantly, a hook crashing into Charlie's ribs with a sickening thud, forcing a grunt from his lips as he staggered sideways. Pain flared, sharp and hot, but he stayed upright, circling back. Round two began, and the man pressed harder—a flurry of jabs peppered Charlie's guard, breaking through to snap his head back, blood trickling from his dream-nose. He swung a desperate hook, aiming for the jaw that wasn't there, and missed, earning a brutal kick to his thigh that buckled his leg. He hit the mat, gasping, but rolled to his feet, fists up, eyes narrowed. "Not tonight," he growled, spitting blood.
The rounds blurred together, each one a storm of pain and defiance. In the third, a jab split his lip, and he answered with a shaky cross that clipped the man's shoulder. The fourth brought an uppercut that rocked his jaw, stars bursting in his vision, but he stumbled forward, throwing a weak jab to keep the distance. The fifth saw a knee slam into his gut, doubling him over, yet he straightened, his breath ragged, his fists trembling. By the sixth, his dream-body was a mess—blood streaking his face, ribs aching with every move—but he kept swinging, kept moving, fueled by a stubborn fire he hadn't known he had. The seventh was a slaughter, the faceless man landing blow after blow, a hook to his cheek, a jab to his chest, a kick that sent him sprawling. He clawed his way up, legs shaking, and threw a punch that barely brushed the man's arm. "Come on," he rasped, voice hoarse. "That all you got?"
Then came the eighth round. The bell rang, and the faceless man charged, fists flying with lethal intent. Charlie weaved, his reflexes sharper now, dodging a jab and taking a glancing hook to his shoulder instead of his face. Pain seared through him, but he gritted his teeth, planting his feet. The man threw a straight punch, fast and hard, aimed for his jaw. Charlie saw it coming—weeks of videos, nights of analysis flashing in his mind—and ducked low, surging forward. His forehead met the man's fist in a desperate, reckless clash, a crack echoing as skin split and blood sprayed from his brow. The impact jolted through his skull, his vision blurring red, but he didn't fall. He stood there, swaying, blood dripping down his face, staring into that blank void where a face should've been. The faceless man paused, fist still raised, as if surprised. Charlie's lips curled into a bloody grin, his voice a ragged whisper. "Not this time." The bell rang, sharp and final, cutting through the haze.
Charlie jolted awake, bolting upright in bed with a raw, triumphant shout—"YES!" His chest heaved, his heart hammering against his ribs, sweat soaking his sheets. He clutched his head, half-expecting blood, but his real body was unmarked, the pain a fading echo. The System's voice broke through, calm yet resonant. "Combat instinct increased to 1%. Boxing Level: 2 Stars achieved." He froze, the words sinking in, then let out a shaky laugh, falling back onto his pillow. "I did it," he gasped, staring at the ceiling. "I stood. I didn't fall." His hands clenched into fists, a surge of pride swelling in his chest. Tomorrow, school would start—a new battleground, a new Charlie. But tonight, in the ring of his mind, he'd won.