"A fake?" Jason muttered to himself.
"Me… a fake? What the hell does that even mean?!"
His chest burned as anger surged up his throat.
"Ever since I got here, you guys have done nothing but disrespect me! SCREW YOU ALL!"
Kwame tilted his head, calm but cutting.
"Why do you feel so entitled to respect? Isn't respect something you earn?"
"WRONG!" the coach barked.
The entire gym froze.
"Kwame, I've taught you this countless times, and you still don't listen. Lay off the newbie."
"But coach—"
"Everyone deserves respect," the coach snapped. "End of discussion. Who are we, as humans, to decide who is worthy of basic respect?"
The weight of his words crushed the room into silence. Even Kwame looked away, shame flickering across his face.
The coach exhaled slowly.
"Alright, Jason. You won't spar with Kwame."
He turned his head. "But you will spar with one of our trainees. Luka—step out."
A young man approached the ring. He looked younger than Jason, lighter too—lean, compact, nothing flashy.
Jason smirked.
"Doesn't this break weight-class rules?"
"This is just sparring," the coach replied. "No need to take it seriously. And I trust Luka."
"WE ALL TRUST LUKA, DON'T WE?!" Kwame roared.
The gym erupted.
Chants thundered through the space, stomps shaking the floor beneath Jason's feet.
For the first time since arriving, unease crept into his chest.
Moments later, both men stood in the ring.
DING.
"Okay, let's—"
Jason didn't even finish the thought.
Luka exploded forward.
One step. Two. Three—
Each dash happened within seconds, so fast Jason barely processed it.
"What—?!"
Jason staggered backward, eyes wide.
How is he this fast? He's smaller than me—
Instinct kicked in. Jason swung—wild, furious, putting everything into a single ferocious punch.
Luka slipped inside it.
His eyes burned with focus. No hesitation. No fear.
BHAM!
Luka's fist smashed into Jason's face.
The world flipped.
Jason crashed onto the mat as the gym erupted in deafening cheers, the sound rolling over him like thunder.
His vision fractured—faces multiplying, lights streaking, noise blurring into chaos.
What… what just happened?
He punched me—
Fuck… that hurt.
That really hurt.
Aren't these gloves supposed to soften the blows?!
"Six!"
"Seven!"
"Eight!"
Jason realized—too late—that the count had already started.
He forced himself up, legs trembling beneath him, vision still swimming.
He was standing.
But he wasn't steady.
"WHY AREN'T YOU LISTENING TO ME, KID?! PUT YOUR ARMS UP! ARMS UP!" the coach screamed.
Jason froze mid-thought, eyes wide. Since the spar started… was he always shouting this loud? Why am I only hearing him now?
Luka stepped forward, ready to strike again. Everyone in the gym held their breath—except the coach, who already knew what was coming.
Jason flinched, taking instinctive steps backward.
What the… why did I move back?
Luka's eyes flicked to the coach, silently asking for guidance. The coach raised a hand: stop the spar.
Luka turned, retreating to his corner.
Jason's chest tightened. He's walking away… leaving me? No—he thinks I can't handle him.
Fueled by anger and humiliation, Jason lunged. He saw an opening and threw himself at Luka.
"Watch out!" shouted the men in the gym, their voices rising in alarm.
But Luka's reflexes were sharp. He ducked under Jason's wild swing, pivoted, and readied a powerful strike aimed at Jason's liver.
"Noooo! Luka! You'll kill him!" the coach yelled.
Kill me?! Jason thought, his mind flashing back to the brutal counterpunch from just moments ago. The pain, the shock—it all came rushing back.
Jason panicked. He dropped to his ass, arms flailing, sweat pouring down his face—not from exertion, but from fear.
"SHIT!!" he screamed.
Luka paused. It was only a feint.
Jason slumped there, drenched in sweat, heart hammering in his chest. The gym seemed impossibly large, eyes burning into him from every corner.
His gaze locked on Kwame. His lips moved silently. 'See? You're a fake.'
A vein throbbed in Jason's forehead. His anger and embarrassment mingled, threatening to explode—but the sight of Kwame smirking only made it worse.
"Let's continue the fight!" Jason begged, desperation lacing his voice.
The coach's face darkened.
"No! That was a cheap attack! You can't just lunge like that when the sparring was called off!"
Jason shot back, frustration boiling over. "Cheap? How is it cheap?! Everyone knows you never turn your back to an opponent!"
The coach paused, realization dawning. They never actually told him the sparring was over.
"Fine," the coach said through gritted teeth. "Let's continue."
Luka nodded, stepping forward again, calm and focused.
From that moment, Jason flinched at every step, every punch, every movement. His arms stayed rigidly in defense. Block, flinch, block. That was all he did.
Luka, seeing this, slowed his pace, testing Jason with gentle jabs and teasing uppercuts, almost like a cat playing with a mouse.
Jason's heart pounded. Sweat dripped down his forehead. Every instinct screamed fight—but fear kept him frozen.
"ARE YOU NOT GOING TO PUNCH BACK?!" Kwame's voice rang out across the gym.
"DIDN'T THE COACH TEACH YOU HOW TO THROW A PUNCH?! THIS IS GETTING BORING!"
The words cut deep. Jason's chest tightened. Every ounce of pride screamed at him—but his body refused to obey.
You think I'm not trying to throw a punch? Jason thought. I've been trying — planning where to hit him — but I don't see any openings.
"Why isn't he throwing any punches, coach? Luka is practically leaving himself exposed just to give the newbie a chance," Kwame said.
"He's scared," the coach replied calmly.
"But it's boxing. It's a sport — you have to get punched to punch," Kwame argued.
"Yes, for boxers like you that's common sense. But for someone who's never boxed before, it's harder to grasp. Especially if, your whole life, you've been hiding behind things," the coach said.
"Well… at least this will be a wake-up call for him, I guess."
"It could be," the coach nodded. "But these moments go both ways. They either change you for the better… or for the worse."
I can't hit this guy… I just can't.
There are no openings — no… that's not true. There are openings.
But if I go for one… will he hit me?
Thought after thought submerged Jason's mind, each one stabbing into him like a dagger.
Should I attack now?
No… wait.
But for how long?
Damn it… should I attack now?
I'm scared.
No — I'M NOT!
…But I am.
God forbid… I'm scared.
His punches hurt.
Then Kwame's earlier words echoed through his skull.
You're a fake.
Just as the insult resurfaced, Jason saw Luka stepping in, ready to deliver another blow.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I'm sca—
Gadeon jolted awake.
His eyes shot open, his body drenched in sweat. He pushed himself upright, disoriented, struggling to piece together how long he had been unconscious.
Then it hit him.
He had been in the middle of a fight with Gage.
But as he scanned his surroundings, the hallway was empty.
Gage was gone.
Ah… I remember all of that. And then I walked out, never returning.
"Time for round two." Gadeon muttered to himself, his voice steady, but his eyes told another story—they weren't determined at all. Instead, they flickered like a man clinging to delusions just to stay sane.
Me? Scared? Scared of being hurt? Pft… it dies today!
I'm fake? I GUESS I AM! Because this isn't Jason… this is Gadeon! So I am a fake! Might as well be one, since this isn't truly me!
He went silent for a moment, his chest heaving, as if the weight of the realisation had settles on him.
Ah… I see… fake… mirror… reflection…
A manic grin spread across his face.
Hah! Just figured it out — the secret of the Mirror Technique! Oh… I'm definitely winning round two now. Thank you, Jason.