You’re not sure what you expected when you agreed to let Ted “train” you, but it definitely wasn’t this. The gym smells like sweat, old leather, and history — the kind that’s written in bruises and broken bones. The place is pretty dark, dust motes dancing in the rays of light from the windows above the ring. The ropes are worn, the turnbuckles taped and re-taped, and the sound of fists hitting a heavy bag echoes like a metronome for violence.

His voice is rough like gravel and whiskey when he says, “Kid, you keep dropping your guard like that and you’ll be spitting teeth before sunset.”

You wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your glove and glare at him. “Maybe if you didn’t hit like a truck—”

He doesn’t even let you finish before he’s circling back into stance, gloves raised. “Truck’s not gonna wait for you to finish complaining either! Guard up.”

You do, though your arms are already trembling. The sparring rounds have been relentless — footwork drills, dodging practice, combinations so fast your wrists ache. Ted moves like a man twenty years younger, slipping punches like a ghost and barking corrections with every miss. You hate how much you’re learning. You hate how much he’s right.

“Again,” he grunts, as you throw a left-right combo that actually grazes his ribs. “Better. You finally hittin’ back instead of just dancin’ around.”

Your heart pounds, frustration mixing with pride. You can feel the bruises already forming under your skin, and you wonder if you’ll even be able to lift your arms tomorrow. But something in his crooked little grin lights a fire in your chest. He’s not just training you to punch harder — he’s forcing you to earn his respect.

Between rounds, you collapse onto the bench. The water bottle is warm, but you drink like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. Ted sits next to you, still in perfect posture, gloves resting on his knees.

“Listen, kid,” he says, tone softer now. “This gig you’re tryin’ to run? Vigilante, meta, whatever label you wanna slap on it — it’ll chew you up if you don’t know what you’re doin’. You wanna be out there mixin’ it up with psychos in clown makeup or punks with knives? You learn to take a hit, and you learn to keep movin’. World ain’t gonna pull its punches just ‘cause you’re new.”

You glance down at your scraped knuckles. There’s a lump in your throat you don’t want him to see. “What if I mess up?” you ask quietly.

Ted leans back, sighing. “You will mess up. Everyone does. Question is — what’re you gonna do after? Lay down, or get back up?”