The walk home was calm. With every step I took I felt I was leaving something behind, something I'm glad isn't with me at the moment.
By the time I pushed open the door to my apartment, the silence was a physical relief.
I didn't think much. The after-school routine has been monotonous. I shucked off the uniform, the fabric feeling like a costume I'd worn for a play I never auditioned for. In its place, I pulled on a pair of worn shorts and a tight-fitting athletic shirt. This wasn't just changing clothes; it was like shedding skin. The ghost like Satoshi Nakamura was left on the floor. The badass motherfucker was getting ready for work. WOOOO
"I really need to stop copying Sting in my house, god knows when i get too loud and the neighbours complain about me."
I packed my bag with all that was needed: hand wraps, fourteen-ounce gloves, my boots, mouthguard, a full water bottle. Today I'm supposed to do kickboxing drills.The familiar weight of the bag on my shoulder was a promise. A promise of clarity. Of purpose.
The walk to Lion's Den was different. My posture was different, my gaze was different, I was different. My steps became more purposeful, adrenaline rushing out of me even before I started on the mitts.
Pushing open the heavy door to the Den was like stepping into another world. The air itself was different—thick, hot, and heavy with the smells of sweat, leather, and disinfectant. The sound was an overlapping cacophony that I'd learned to translate: the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of gloves on heavy bags, the sharp grunts of effort, the slap of skin on canvas, and the relentless, piercing beep of the round timer. This wasn't a gym; it was a forge. And I was here to be hammered.
I nodded to a few regulars—a silent language of respect—and found my spot near the corner, the spot everyone left empty for me, a corner with heavy, speed and the sand bag all lined together. The warm-up routine was engraved in my mind at this point.First the jump rope-ing, what im doing mma so is it wrong to wanna be like Ali??. The whap-whap-whap against the matted ground drowned out the last remnants of school, my world narrowing to the spin of the cable and the timing of my feet. Now time for shadow jabbing, my favorite, instead of wrapping wrist wraps i wrapped a handkerchief on my weaker hand and began to jab with it, this may not be boxing but the rules of striking are constant here too. 'He who rules the left rules the world'.
"Nakamura."
I looked up. Sendo-san, the owner and head coach, stood there. He was a man in his fifties built like a bulldog, with a flattened nose and eyes that had seen a thousand fights.
"Ribs?" he grunted.
"Fine," I said, already wrapping my hands. The ritual of it—the careful weaving of the cloth over my knuckles—was another layer of focus.
"Good. Pad work. Let's see if you remember how to move your head."
We started. Jab. Cross. Hook. The pop-pop-thud of my gloves hitting his focus mitts was a language more honest than any spoken at school. It was truth. A clean connection.
"Faster! You're waiting for an invitation!" Coach barked, snapping a mitt toward my temple. My body reacted on instinct, slipping outside the arc of the punch and firing back a sharp cross that landed solidly.
You didn't even sway.
Kurayami's voice, cool and analytical, flashed in my mind. My next combination was faster, sharper. Jab, cross, step-in knee to the body. Thud. Thud. Thump.
Coach's eyes narrowed a fraction, a sign of approval. "Better. Now combos! One-two, low kick! Slip, cross, body hook!"
We moved around the floor. The world dissolved into the beautiful, violent dance. Strike and defend. Create angles. Cut off the cage. The burn in my shoulders, the dull impact traveling up my shin as I checked an imaginary kick—it was all honest feedback. There was no subtext here. No hidden meanings or social hierarchies. Just action and reaction. Force meeting force.
After the pads, it was time for the mats. My sparring partner was Kenji, the welder with a grip like iron and a relentless pressure-wrestling game. We touched gloves.
The feeling of tying up with another human being, of feeling their strength and their intent transmitted through grips and shifts in weight, is like nothing else. It's a violent conversation. He shot for a double-leg takedown. My hips sank instinctively, my sprawl a product of hundreds of hours of drilled muscle memory. I fought for underhooks, my face pressed into his shoulder, both of us grunting with effort. The pressure was immense, a full-body chess match where every inch of space was contested.
He managed to take my back, his legs locking around my waist. A year ago, a flash of claustrophobic panic would have set in. Today, my mind was cold, clear. I trapped an arm, created a sliver of space, and hip-escaped, reversing the position in a furious scramble until I was on top, in side control. My weight was a controlled, crushing force. He struggled, but the position was mine. After a moment, he tapped my side in respect. We broke apart, both of us breathing in ragged gulps, and reset.
For the next hour, there were no thoughts of school. No ghosts of girlfriends past. No puzzling interactions with sun goddesses or moonlit goths. There was only the grind. The beautiful, brutal, and simple grind of the Den. This was where I proved my existence, not to anyone else, but to myself. With every shot I took, every takedown I defended, every submission I escaped, the ghost of the pathetic loser from a year ago was exorcised all over again.
I finished with a brutal conditioning circuit—kettlebell swings, battle ropes, burpees. Until my lungs burned and my muscles screamed for mercy. Until there was nothing left in my head but the need for the next breath.
I sat with my back against the cold steel of the cage, utterly spent. My body was a tapestry of exhaustion. My sweat pooled on the mats below me. This was the afterglow. The silence in my head was finally earned, purchased with sweat and exhaustion.
The cool-down was a slow, deliberate process of stretching, feeling the tight, overworked muscles reluctantly release their tension. The rest of the Den was emptying out. The noise was fading, replaced by the simple, satisfying ache in my body.
I was just grabbing my water bottle, my mind blissfully empty, when a shadow fell over me.
I looked up. It was Coach. He wasn't wearing his usual grimace. His expression was unreadable, serious. He crossed his thick arms over his chest.
"Nakamura," he said, his voice low, cutting through the post-training haze. "Good work today. You're looking sharp."
I gave a slight nod, waiting. Coaches didn't just give out compliments without a reason.
He paused, his eyes scanning my face as if looking for something. "That control you showed with Kenji… the patience. It's good. Real good. Mma and boxing are different sports but the hit and not get hit philosophy applies here too."
Another pause. The air felt suddenly heavier.
"Listen," he said, his tone shifting, becoming more direct. "There's something I need to tell you."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping so only I could hear it over the distant hum of the cleaning crew.
"It's about your professional debut."