Jason's body was heavy, not with exhaustion alone but with the weight of the day before. Sleep came reluctantly at first, as though his mind still wanted to linger on the echoes of cheering crowds, the sting of pain where he'd lost a tooth, and the surprising swell of pride when his hand was lifted in victory. But eventually, rest found him, and in the depths of his slumber, something else stirred.
He dreamed.
It wasn't like the scattered flashes or blurred nonsense of regular sleep. This dream was sharp, vivid—too vivid. It was a memory, one belonging not to Jason the mechanic, the fighter, or even the brother—but to Grayson. His past self. The life he had long forgotten.
The smell of roasted chicken floated through the air first, so real he almost drooled. Laughter followed, spilling in from a dining room brimming with voices. Jason opened his eyes within the dream and found himself sitting at a long, wooden dining table, polished smooth with years of family use.
On his left sat his little brother, only about eight, his cheeks full of bread as he chewed like a squirrel. He had the same eyes Jason remembered seeing in the mirror back then—mischievous and restless. Across the table, his aunt clucked her tongue.
"Slow down, you'll choke on it!" she scolded.
His uncle, sitting beside her, laughed and raised his glass. "Let the boy eat. If he chokes, we'll just pound it out of him!"
The table erupted with laughter, and Jason—Grayson—felt his own chuckle join in, light and easy.
The memory unfolded like theater. His mom walked in, apron tied tight, brushing flour from her hands as she carried a steaming dish to the table. Behind her was his dad, trying to balance two bottles of wine with a grin plastered across his face.
"Careful!" his mom warned.
"I've been careful since the day I met you," his dad said with a wink that earned him a roll of the eyes but a hidden smile in return.
Jason's little brother pointed at the bottles. "Is that for us too?"
The entire table burst into laughter again. His aunt shook her head. "He's already got enough fire in him without wine. Don't encourage him!"
Jason remembered this moment—it had been an ordinary dinner, but now, reliving it, he saw how much warmth there had been in the ordinary. He remembered teasing his brother, joking with his uncle, listening to his father tell ridiculous stories about his youth that nobody believed.
At one point, his aunt tried to serve vegetables onto his plate. He remembered exactly what he had said:
"No thanks, Aunt Clara. Vegetables are for people planning to live forever. I plan on going out with a bang."
She smacked him with the spoon, to the roar of laughter from everyone else, and even his father had chimed in: "Careful, son. You'll regret it when your wife serves you the same plate every night."
Jason laughed now, even within the dream, his chest tightening with the bittersweet ache of knowing all of this was gone. His family. His life as Grayson.
Yet the dream wasn't cruel. It wasn't showing him loss; it was reminding him of belonging. Of where he came from. Of the warmth he was capable of carrying forward.
The laughter continued, soft and distant now, as though fading through a tunnel. And then—silence.
Jason woke.
The ceiling above him came into focus, dull gray in the early morning light. He blinked, rubbing his face. His heart still carried the warmth of the dream, but also the ache.
"Grayson…" he whispered under his breath. "I most go home, I miss everyone. But Jason is who I am now."
And then, like a switch, the metallic chime of the system echoed in his mind.
[Query detected. Would you like to improve your combat readiness?]
Jason exhaled slowly. "Yes. Tell me what I need to do. I don't want to just scrape through fights. I need to be stronger—for Sophie, for me, for everything ahead."
The system's voice was neutral, clear, almost clinical:
[Current Status Evaluation:
– Combat Speed Rating: Below average.
– Combat Strength Rating: Below average.
– Agility: Low.
– Punch Power: Moderate.
– Reflex: Low.
– Total Strength Rating: Poor.]
Jason grimaced. "I know. I felt it in the ring last night."
[Recommendation: A specialized training routine to increase all stats by 20% within 1 week. Would you like to hear the plan?]
"Yes."
The system laid it out in structured detail:
– Strength: Weighted body routines, improvised lifting with auto parts at the workshop, and resistance training.
– Speed: Sprint intervals, footwork drills, timed movements.
– Agility: Balance training, rope drills, obstacle practice.
– Punch Power: Daily striking sessions against sandbags, car tires, and reinforced steel.
– Reflex: Partner drills with Sam or mechanical setups for reaction time.
Jason listened intently, mentally ticking off each part of the regimen. It wasn't just about fighting anymore. This was about transformation.
"Alright," he muttered. "I'll do it. Every last piece."
The system gave its cold affirmation:
[Compliance acknowledged. Growth will be proportional to effort. Remember: stats measure only potential. Execution determines victory.]
Jason smiled faintly. "Then I'll execute better than anyone."
He swung his legs off the bed, stretching. Today was important. Sophie was being discharged.
He didn't want her to see him looking like the tired, worn-out mechanic who spent his nights brawling in underground rings. He wanted her to see hope, strength, a brother who was building something for them both.
So, he showered, cleaned himself up, and carefully selected clothes that were crisp and new enough to pass for special. He even polished his shoes—something he hadn't done in years. When he caught his reflection in the mirror, for once he didn't see just Jason the struggler. He saw someone who could change.
At the hospital, the halls smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm meals. Nurses bustled by, their chatter and footsteps echoing in the wide corridors. Jason carried a small bag with Sophie's new clothes folded neatly inside.
At the reception, a nurse smiled when he mentioned Sophie. "Yes, she's ready for discharge. You can head to her room."
Jason pushed the door open and found Sophie sitting on the bed, her hair brushed neatly, her face brighter than it had been in weeks. She looked up, and when her eyes caught his, she broke into a smile that lit up the entire sterile room.
"Jason!" she exclaimed.
He set the bag down, grinning as he walked over. "Look at you, already glowing like you own the place. Ready to bust out of here?"
Sophie laughed, a sound that still seemed fragile but held new energy. "I've been ready since the second they brought me here. Did you bring the clothes?"
Jason lifted the bag. "Of course. Only the best for you."
She rifled through the clothes, her eyes shining. "These are new."
"Yeah," Jason admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Figured you deserved something fresh. New chapter, new clothes."
She gave him a look that pierced straight through his defenses. "Thank you."
Jason helped her get ready, fussing like an overprotective parent until she swatted his hands away with a laugh. Finally, they left the room, passing by doctors and nurses who wished her well. At the desk, Jason signed the final papers, settling the bills with a quiet sense of relief.
As they stepped outside into the sunlight, Sophie took a deep breath, her eyes closing for a moment as though she were soaking it all in.
"This feels good," she murmured.
Jason smiled. "Freedom always does."
She glanced at him sideways. "So, where are we going? Straight home?"
Jason hesitated, then shook his head. "Actually, I was thinking… if you're up for it, you could come with me to the workshop today. Meet the crew. See where I spend my time."
Sophie's eyes lit up with curiosity. "Really? You'll let me?"
He laughed. "Let you? You're my sister. You're practically the boss of me. Of course."
She beamed, looping her arm through his as they began walking. "Then let's go. I want to see everything."
And for Jason, in that moment, the world felt lighter. Between dreams of the past and the plans of the future, here was his present: walking beside Sophie, both of them stepping into something new.