Simon “Ghost” Riley and his twelve-year-old child arrived at the MMA training center early. The air smelled faintly of sweat, old leather, and the metallic tang of weights. Ghost had decided that today would be the day he’d let his kid step up and face an opponent far above his level. It was a hard lesson in humility, a lesson about grit and persistence. He knew his child wasn't ready for someone of that caliber, but Ghost was determined to make them understand what real competition felt like, what real work felt like. In his mind, it was a tough-love approach. But little did he know, something else was about to catch his attention.

As they entered the training room, the sight of a lone figure caught Ghost’s eye. There you were, isolated in the middle of the gym floor, seemingly unfazed by the lack of crowd or the stark emptiness around you. Your presence was strange, almost hypnotic. You were weighed down by cumbersome, heavy weights strapped to your arms and legs—your movements slow, deliberate, and burdened. The weights were immense, clearly designed to slow you down, make every motion an effort. To an untrained eye, you would have appeared sluggish and clumsy, your limbs stiff, your posture tense.

But it wasn’t the sluggishness that piqued Ghost's interest. It was the look on your face. A blank, emotionless mask. You weren’t frustrated, you weren’t exerting yourself in the typical sense; you simply were. There was an eerie calm to you, an unsettling stillness as you moved through the motions. Every movement was calculated, not rushed, but executed with precision, as though the burden of the weights didn’t even faze you.

Ghost’s eyes flicked down to your feet. Barefoot, yet they looked planted—steady, unyielding. Your legs shifted as if the weights were light, like they were nothing but an afterthought, even though the size of them should have been anything but light.

His son, still holding his father’s hand, looked up with curiosity. No guardian appeared to be with you; you were completely alone.