Dusk clung to Maplewood like a fading bruise as Charlie pushed through his front door, the Thursday night air cool against his battered skin. He dropped his backpack by the basement stairs, as usual. Iron Will Fight Club still buzzed in his veins - Mike's crumpled form, John's offer to make him great, Diego's smirk, the System's count: 79/1000 hits. "Getting there," he muttered, his steps light but purposeful as he headed to the kitchen.
No big recipe tonight; he grabbed leftovers from Wednesday's chicken, a loaf of bread, some lettuce, and a jar of mayo - his $10,750 stash kept the pantry stocked. He toasted two slices, the bread crisping golden, smeared mayo thick, layered shredded chicken, and tucked in crisp lettuce leaves. The sandwich came together in minutes, simple but solid, the flavors clean and satisfying. As he took a bit, the system chimed softly: Cooking task complete. + $100. Balance: $10,850. He smirked, chewing—every meal a step forward.
Marge his mother and Harold his father shuffled in as he set the table, three plates with sandwiches, a pitcher of water between them. Marge's eyes softened at the sight, her factory apron slung over her arm. "Charlie, you didn't have to cook again," she said, voice warm but tired. Harol clapped his shoulder, grinning. "Smells good, son - keepin' us fed." They sat, and Charlie took a breath, his grin fading to something serious. "I gotta tell you guys something. I joined a gym - Iron Will Fight Club. It's boxing, Muay Thai, MMA... real stuff. I'll come home beat up sometimes, but don't worry, it's just training." Marge's froze, her face paling. "What? Charlie, who's hitting you? That's not safe!" Harold's eyes lit up, leaning forward. "Fighting, huh? That's a man's game! You winning yet?" Charlie raised a hand, steady "Yep, dad, i won my first sparring today. I'm learning, getting stronger. Come see it sometime." Marge frowned, reaching across to touch his gauze-taped cheek, her fingers trembling. "You're already hurt... maybe this weekend or the next one we'll go, but please, be careful." Harold nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "How was the opponent today? Tough guy?" Charlie grinned, wild again. "Yeah, but I managed to knock him out in one hit." They ate, Marge's worry lingering Harold's pride glowing. and Charlie felt the weight of their trust settle in.
He cleared the plates, the kitchen clock ticking past eight. Upstairs, he brushed his teeth, the mirror showing a sharper face, bruises also fading. He flopped onto his basement bed expecting the pull of Sleep Fighting, but the darkness stayed calm, no ring, no faceless man. Still at 6%evolution, he thought, remembering the System's rule - 10% for the fights to return. He smiled, grateful for another night of good sleep.
Friday's dawn broke gray, the basement window glowing faintly. Charlie rose, soreness dulled but present, his lip scabbed tight. He laced up his sneakers, the morning air biting as he hit the streets for his three-mile run. Maplewood woke slowly - lawns damp with dew, a delivery truck rumbling past, his breath puffing in steady burst. Near the benches, the old man from months back - white hair, weathered jacket - looked up from is newspaper, raising a hand. "Keep it up, little tank!" he called, voice raspy but warm. Charlie grinned, waving back his chest swelling. From a fatty to this, he thought, feet pounding harder, the park blurring past.
Back home, he hite the kitchen, hunger sharp after the run. No eggs today - he wanted something new. He pulled out flour, eggs, milk, a pinch of cinnamon, and a mixed batter. The griddle hissed as he poured rounds, tortitas bubbling golden, the sweet-spiced aroma filling the air. He stacked three, drizzled maple syrup, and dug in, the fluff giving way to a warm bite. The System chimed: Cooking task complete. +$100. Balance $10,950. he nodded, scarfing the rest, his mind flicking to class.
Maplewood Community College buzzed with Friday's hum - students milling in the quad, lockers slamming, a faint chill lingering in the halls. Charlie slipped into biology class, mid-row, notebook open. Mr. Evans stood at the board, a wiry man with graying hair, scribbling a diagram of a cell - mitochondrias like tiny ovals, labeled in chalk. "Cells are factories," he said, voice carrying, " and these powerhouses keep you moving. So - what do mitochondria do?" Charlie's hand shot up, " They make energy, right?" Evans nodded, adjusting his glasses. "Close, Finch - they convert glucose into ATP. Fuel, not raw power." Another question came: "What's ATP for?" Charlie tried again, brow furrowing. "Gives cells strength?" Evans smiled faintly. "Near enough - it's their gasoline, runs every process." Other students piped up - some right, some fumbling - and the class stretched on.
Across the room, Emma Harper caught his eye - not Katie, not that fleeting crush, but something new. She sat near the front, glasses framing deep green eyes that flickered with focus, her castaño claro hair pulled into a loose braid that spilled over one shoulder. Faint freckles dusted her cheeks, softening the sharp line of her smile, and when she smiled at a classmate's answer, it was quiet but magnetic, like she held a secret. Popular, smart, but not loud about it - her white blouse and jeans were simple, yet she stood out, a calm kind of beauty. She glanced at Charlie as he spoke, her gaze lingering, those green eyes sizing him up - not just the leaner frame, but the spark in his answers. Bobby slouched a few rows back, silent.
The bell rang, and Charlie shuffled out, his notebook tucked under his arm. In the cafeteria, he grabbed a sandwich from the line - turkey, soggy bread - and sat alone, unwrapping it slowly. Footsteps approached, and he looked up - Emma, her braid swaying, glasses catching the light. "Hey, Charlie," she said, voice clear with a hint of warmth. "Nice change. Didn't know you had that in you." Her green eyes met his, direct, her freckles shifting as she smiled, soft but sure. Charlie's face warmed, his throat catching. "Uh, thanks," he managed, awkwardly. "Just... trying to be better." She laughed, light and easy, adjusting her glasses. "It looks like you're doing more than that." She turned, walking off to her girlfriends, and Charlie watched her go, heart thumping. Emma, huh... damn.
The afternoon sun slanted low as Charlie pushed into Iron Will Fight Club, the gym's pulse hitting him - bags thumping, ropes snapping, the clack of pads from the MMA cage. He proceeded to tap his hands, the familiar wrap grounding him. Mike was already there, gloves on, bouncing in the ring. "Back for more, stone man?" he grinned, chin still faintly red from yesterday's cross. Charlie nodded, wild glint sparking. They geared up - headgear, mouthguard, and gloves - and climbed in, the canvas creaking.
Mike came out fast, jabbing high - Charlie blocked, forearms firm, the thud counting toward Unbreakable body. A hook grazed his ribs, another jab clipped his headgear - 5, 10, 15 hits. Charlie answered, jabs snapping from his shoulder, wrist twisting palm-down, a cross driving through with a pivot of his back foot. Mike opened with a double jab, then a cross that stung Charlie's cheek - 20, 25. Sweat beaded, his bruises screamed a little, but he kept his guard, takin 30, 35, 40 by the third round, he was tired, very tired - muscles burning, breath ragged. The System chimed: Hits received 40(28 direct, 12 blocked). Total: 119/1000.
Then John called them over for the group routine, a dozen fighters spread across the gym. "Shadow-box - 100 jabs, move your feet!" Charlie fell in, throwing crisp jabs, step- sliding across the floor, knees bent, never crossing his stance. John prowled, barking corrections: "Your feet, Charlie - your right up!" Don't just take hits, fight back!" Charlie nodded, serious. and chained a jab-cross-hook, his hips twisting, the motions tighter than weeks ago. He wasn't just a punching bag; to reach boxing 3 stars, he needed to strike to grow. Sweat poured, but he pushed, the gym's rhythm driving him - bags, pads, and shouts blending into one pulse. Charlie was very tired, but he felt that energy surge. The system's staminarecovery, he thought with gratefulness.
After the drill, Charlie headed to Rick, who was stacking weights. "Hey, where's the jiu-jitsu master?" Rick grunted, not looking up. "Rodrigo? Got surgery; he'll be back next week." Before Charlie could reply, Diego sauntered over, his scarred hands loose, a grin splitting his face. "Forget that - come with me. MMA's the game." He tossed Charlie a pair of used MMA gloves - 4-ounce, scuffed leather, lighter than boxing ones. "These'll work—keep 'em." Charlie caught them, nodding, and followed Diego to the cage, the gym's hum fading behind.
Diego's class was small - six fighters, mats spread wide. "Stance first," Diego said planting his feet. "Feet apart, knees bent, chin down - your fortress." Charlie mimicked, orthodox, but his chin drifted up - Diego tapped it. "Lower that head, man, or you're eating punches." Next, jab-cross: "You know this - jab sets up, cross hits hard." Charlie threw against Diego's pad - jab snapping quick, cross pivoting his hip, Boxing 2 Stars shining. Diego nodded. "Solid pivot, now we go low." He showed a single-leg takedown: "Deep step, forehead to chest, grab the knee, lift and turn." Charlie tried on a grappling dummy - stepped in but didn't sink low. The dummy tipped but didn't fall. Diego shook his head. "Get lower - hips, not arms." Second try, Charlie dropped to his knees, pressed his forehead to the dummy's chest, gripped the knee, and turned, sweeping it down clean. Diego clapped. "That's it!" Third try, smoother, and the system chimed: MMA 1 star gained—basic proficiency achieved. Charlie grinned sweat dripping, as Diego stepped back, his grin fading to a serious nod. "Sparring with Mike, John's drills, now my class - man, you've got lungs of steel."
Charlie trudged home, Friday's dusk deep and cool, his bruises pulsing but his step light. He hit the kitchen, hunger roaring, and pulled out a head of cauliflower, chese, and spices - time for something fresh. He chopped florets, tossed them in olive oil, salt and pepper, and spread them on a tray, grating cheddar thick over the top. The oven hummed at 400ºF, and soon the kitchen was filled with a nutty, cheesy aroma, the florets crisping golden. He plated three servings, the cheese bubbling, and called his parents. Marge smiling at the dish, Harold digging in. "Damn, son, this is good," he said, mouth full. Marge nodded.
Charlie took a breath, reaching into his pocket. He slid an envelope across - $3000 in cash, System money. "Take this," he said, voice frim. "Go on a weekend trip - somewhere nice." Marge's eyes widened. "No, Charlie we can't - " Harlod cut in, "Keep that, son!" Charlie shook his head, leaning forward. "This summer, i earned enough to stand on my own - school's going good, i'm looking good. This is my thank-you for taking care of me." Marge's protest faltered, her eyes softening; Harold's jaw tightened, proud. They took it, hands hesitand, and Charlie smiled, the act of giving lighter than any punch. Dinner wound down, and he cleared the plates, their nods warming him.
In his basement, he opened his laptop, pulling up a sports site - grappling dummies, heavy-duty. He picked one, $150, clicking buy. His remaining cash: $7950. Gonna train like Diego, he though. He shut the laptop, climbed into bed, smiled "Another damn night without that brutal ring", sleep hit fast, soft and full, carrying him into Saturday.