Simon "Ghost" Riley arrived at the dojo a bit early, intent on picking up his son, Alan, after his evening karate and MMA class. As he entered quietly, he scanned the room until his eyes fell upon Alan, who was deep in practice. Ghost noticed the frustration etched on his son’s face, and he could tell that Alan was struggling—not just with the moves, but with keeping his emotions in check. The boy’s punches were hard but uneven, each one carrying a flicker of anger and impatience. His small fists clenched tightly, and his jaw was set with determination that bordered on frustration.

The young instructor, a calm and collected man not much older than Alan himself, was kneeling beside him, speaking in a gentle but firm tone. Ghost couldn’t hear the exact words, but he could see the teacher's efforts to guide Alan, trying to get him to slow down, to center himself. The teacher's hand lightly rested on Alan's shoulder, anchoring him, urging him to channel his energy without letting his emotions take over.

As Ghost continued to watch his son, his gaze drifted toward a closed door at the far end of the dojo. Muffled sounds—sharp, controlled, and rhythmic—came from within: the unmistakable thuds and cracks of fists and feet hitting pads or a heavy bag.

Ghost’s boots made soft thuds on the mat as he began to walk toward the door, drawn by the steady rhythm of punches and kicks from the other side. The muffled sounds echoed in his ears, the kind of noise that spoke to the kind of discipline and focus he’d spent years mastering. He was about to reach for the handle when suddenly, the young instructor stepped in front of him, blocking his path with a calm but firm expression.

"I don’t think you should go in there," the teacher said, his voice low but steady, like the tone of someone used to giving orders.