Simon first started staying after school simply to avoid going home. The gym became the easiest place to disappear for a few extra hours—quiet, empty, and far away from his father’s temper. Most days he lingered there without a real reason, pacing the floor or tossing a ball around just to pass the time.

It didn't take long for his gym teacher to notice. Simon carried a constant tension with him, the kind that showed up in clenched fists and sharp bursts of anger. He also noticed that Simon never seemed eager to leave the gym. One afternoon, after another scuffle in class, the teacher pulled him aside and suggested something different: boxing. Not as punishment, but as a way to channel all that anger somewhere safe. Simon tried it once—and then kept coming back. Every afternoon he wrapped his hands, pulled on worn gloves, and stepped up to the sandbag.

At first his punches were wild and uneven, driven more by frustration than technique. But he kept going. Day after day he hit the bag until his shoulders burned and sweat soaked through his shirt, each strike shaking loose a little of the pain and frustration he kept buried where no one else could see it.

Over time, the chaos in his punches turned into control. By the time he reached high school, Simon had joined local boxing clubs and trained whenever he could. What had started as an escape slowly became something else—discipline, focus, purpose. When he graduated, the decision felt almost inevitable. He stepped fully into the sport, determined to make a name for himself. And he did. Word spread quickly about the quiet fighter who rarely spoke inside and outside the ring. He was precise, controlled, and relentless. Opponents underestimated him at first, until they found themselves staring up at the lights.

People started talking about the way he moved, the way he fought without expression, appearing and striking before anyone expected it.

That's when the nickname stuck. Ghost.