CHAPTER 36: DISCIPLINE
Fogwell's Gym was empty when I arrived.
Matt was already there, bag hanging from its chain, wraps laid out on the bench like surgical instruments. The usual setup. The usual routine. Except tonight, I wasn't here for the usual training.
"You're early," Matt said.
"I need to ask you something." I set my own bag down. "Different kind of training."
His head tilted—that listening gesture I'd come to recognize. Reading my heartbeat, my breathing, the stress in my voice. Whatever he found there made him still.
"What happened?"
"Something I need to control." I took a breath. "Teach me meditation. Focus techniques. How to stay centered when everything is pushing me toward violence."
Matt was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful.
"Most students want more fighting skills. Not less."
"I'm not most students." I met his unseeing gaze, knowing he could hear the truth in every word. "I've got... something inside me. A darkness. And I need to learn how to keep it from taking over."
The silence stretched. Matt's expression shifted through something complicated—surprise, understanding, something that looked almost like recognition.
"Stick used to make me sit for hours," he said finally. "Meditating. Focusing. Learning to hear everything without drowning in it." A ghost of a smile. "I hated him for it. Thought it was pointless. Turns out it was the most important thing he taught me."
He gestured toward the center of the ring. "Sit."
I climbed through the ropes and settled cross-legged on the canvas. Matt joined me, folding his body into a position that spoke of years of practice.
"Close your eyes. Focus on your breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Count the breaths."
Simple instructions. Harder than they sounded.
My mind wandered almost immediately—the warehouse, the berserker edge, Karen's face when she saw me fight, Claire's careful analysis. Thoughts cascading over each other, demanding attention.
"Your heartrate is spiking," Matt observed. "Whatever you're thinking about, let it go."
"Easier said than done."
"Of course it is. That's why we practice." His voice softened. "When I first learned this, I couldn't sit still for five minutes. My senses were screaming at me—every sound, every heartbeat, every vibration in the air. I wanted to jump up and do something. Make the noise stop."
"How did you learn to control it?"
"Stick beat it into me." A humorless laugh. "But the real answer is repetition. Training your mind like you train your body. Building the neural pathways that let you choose calm instead of chaos."
We breathed together. Minutes passed. My thoughts kept surging, but each time I caught myself drifting, I pulled back. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Count the breaths.
"Better," Matt said after a while. "Your heartrate is stabilizing."
"Doesn't feel like I'm doing anything."
"That's how you know it's working." He shifted position slightly. "The goal isn't to empty your mind. It's to observe your thoughts without getting pulled into them. To see the anger coming and choose not to follow it."
The anger. I heard something in his voice when he said it.
"You struggle with it too," I said. Not a question.
Matt was quiet for a long time. When he answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"Every night. Every fight." He exhaled slowly. "There's a part of me that wants to hurt people who hurt others. Not just stop them—hurt them. Make them feel what they've made their victims feel." A pause. "Stick called it the demon. Said it lives in everyone who fights. The difference between a warrior and a monster is whether you control the demon or let it control you."
The most personal thing he'd ever shared. More honest than any conversation we'd had since that rooftop where we acknowledged what he was.
"How do you control it?"
"I remember why I'm doing this." His hand moved to his chest, over his heart. "The people I'm protecting. The justice I'm trying to serve. When the demon whispers that I should break bones and spill blood, I remind myself that I'm not fighting for vengeance. I'm fighting for something better."
We sat in Fogwell's darkness, breathing together. No sounds except our exhales and the distant rumble of the city outside. The gym felt sacred somehow—a space set apart from the violence that filled both our lives.
"Same time Thursday," Matt said eventually. "We'll work on staying calm when everything goes wrong."
"Thank you, Matt."
"Don't thank me yet." He stood, rolling his shoulders. "Meditation is harder than fighting. Most people give up before it starts to help." A faint smile. "But if you're serious about controlling whatever's inside you, this is how. The only way out is through."
I climbed out of the ring and grabbed my bag. At the door, I paused.
"The demon you mentioned," I said. "Does it ever go away?"
Matt was silent for a moment.
"No," he said. "It never goes away. You just get better at keeping it caged."
I nodded and stepped into the night. The cold air hit my face like a slap, but I welcomed it. Something had shifted in Fogwell's—a deepening between us, a recognition of shared struggle.
We were both fighting demons. Different kinds, maybe. But the same war.
Thursday couldn't come soon enough.
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