CHAPTER 55: THE PROFESSIONAL UPGRADE
Marcus's gym was everything Cobra Kai's strip mall dojo wasn't.
Three thousand square feet of professional equipment. Octagon in the center. Heavy bags along one wall, speed bags along another. Weight section that would make a CrossFit gym weep with envy. And absolutely zero tourists taking photos through the windows.
"This," Tory breathed, "is where real fighters train."
"Correct." Marcus emerged from the back office, towel over his shoulder, expression unimpressed. "Also where real fighters learn they're not as good as they think."
He circled our group—me, Miguel, Tory, fresh from school and already changed into training gear. We'd started with three. The others would join as schedules allowed.
"First lesson." Marcus stopped in front of Tory. "You all suck."
"Excuse me?"
"You fight angry. Skilled, but angry. Anger's fuel, not strategy." He moved to Miguel. "You fight careful. Good defense, but you telegraph everything. I can read your combinations before you throw them." He stopped in front of me. "And you fight like ten people at once. No center. No integration. Just chaos hoping to win."
"That's... actually fair," I admitted.
"Second lesson." Marcus pointed at the octagon. "I'll fix all of it. But first, I need to see what I'm working with. You." He pointed at Tory. "In the cage. Me versus you. Two minutes. Show me everything."
Tory's grin was feral. "With pleasure."
She lasted forty-five seconds.
Marcus didn't embarrass her—he was too professional for that. But he demonstrated, with surgical precision, every weakness she'd developed fighting on the street. Overcommitment. Predictable patterns. The way anger made her movements sloppy.
Miguel lasted a minute ten. Better defense, but Marcus found angles he didn't know existed.
My turn.
"You've had formal training," Marcus observed as we circled. "Multiple styles. Underground experience. But you're not integrated."
"Working on it."
He attacked. I blocked, redirected, attempted to counter—
And found myself on the mat wondering what happened.
"You adapt fast," Marcus said, helping me up. "Good instincts. But instincts aren't enough against someone who's trained for decades."
"How long?"
"Thirty-two years." He smiled slightly. "Since I was younger than you. Olympic trials, professional circuit, now this." He gestured at the gym. "Teaching the next generation how to actually fight, instead of how to look good losing."
We trained for two hours. Dirty boxing. Clinch work. Ground game basics. The kind of practical combat that dojos didn't teach because it wasn't pretty enough for tournaments.
Tory thrived in the clinch. All that street-fighting aggression channeled into effective technique. Miguel's timing improved with every round. And I absorbed everything, letting the System catalogue movements I could practice later.
[Skill Acquired: MMA Basics Lv.1] [Skill Acquired: Cage Fighting Lv.1] [Training efficiency: Significant improvement detected.]
We were forty-five minutes in when the door opened.
Two men. Expensive suits. Wrong energy for a gym.
"Looking for membership," one said.
Marcus's posture changed—subtle, but I caught it. "We're full."
"Really?" The suit glanced around the half-empty facility. "Doesn't look full."
"Private session." Marcus positioned himself between them and us. "Come back tomorrow. During business hours."
The suits weren't looking at Marcus. They were looking at us. Specifically, at me.
One pulled out a phone. Took photos. Didn't try to hide it.
"Interesting students." His smile was corporate perfect. "Very... diverse training."
"Tell Silver I said hi," I called out.
Both suits went still.
"Don't know who that is," the one with the phone said.
"Sure you don't." I waved cheerfully. "Nice meeting you. Enjoy the report."
They left quickly. The door closed behind them with finality.
Marcus turned to face us, expression hard. "You know Terry Silver?"
"We had breakfast."
"Then you know what he is."
"Predator in a suit. Yeah."
Marcus shook his head. "If Silver's interested in you, you need to be ready yesterday." He pointed at the octagon. "Again. All of you. Harder this time."
We trained until we couldn't stand.
---
The parking lot asphalt was surprisingly comfortable when you were too exhausted to care about dignity.
Three teenagers lying on concrete, sharing a single Gatorade like survivors of a natural disaster. The California evening sky stretched above us, turning orange and pink as the sun descended.
"I can't feel my legs," Tory announced.
"I can't feel my soul," Miguel contributed.
"I can't feel my feelings," I added.
Delirious laughter. The kind that came from pushing your body past its limits and somehow surviving.
"Same time tomorrow?" Miguel asked.
"If we can walk," Tory said.
"Crawl if you have to." I managed to sit up, every muscle screaming. "Silver's scouts are watching. That means he's accelerating. We need to be ready."
"Ready for what?" Miguel asked.
"Whatever comes next."
We eventually made it to our cars. The group chat exploded with exhausted memes—Tory posting photos of her ruined hands, Miguel sharing a video of himself trying to open his car door and failing.
I drove home on autopilot.
Silver's business card was still in my pocket. I pulled it out at a red light, turned it over.
Handwriting on the back. New. Not there before.
Impressive friends. Let's discuss their future.
He'd been in my car. Or someone had. While I was at Marcus's gym, someone had accessed my vehicle just to leave a message.
The light turned green. I drove.
Whatever game Silver was playing, he wanted me scared. Wanted me off-balance.
Too bad for him. I'd been off-balance since I arrived in this world.
Scared was just Tuesday.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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