Bill stepped into the fighting area with his stomach twisted.
It wasn't pure fear. It was something worse.
It was too much awareness.
He knew he was being watched. He knew Osborn was nearby. He knew Kerr was there too. He knew this wasn't just a fight—it was a test. And because he knew that, every step felt like it needed approval before being taken.
The ground was the same. Packed dirt. Dust in the air. A loose rope. Attentive eyes. But now it was different.
Now it was him.
The boy in front of him didn't look the same age. Broader shoulders. Longer arms. Legs far too muscular for someone who was still supposed to be a child. His face carried the marks of someone who had fought before—not trained, fought.
The other boy didn't wait.
He surged forward with force.
Bill raised his guard too fast, became too rigid. The first strike came heavy—not technical, just strong. Bill stepped back, feeling the impact even through the block.
He's stronger, Bill thought. But strength isn't everything.
He tried to calculate distance. Thought about attacking. Thought too much.
When he finally decided to throw a punch, it was already too late.
His strike was clean and precise—but short. The other boy's reach was longer. The punch cut the air, and in the same instant the counter came. A wide hook, perfectly timed, slammed into Bill's shoulder and knocked him off balance.
The crowd murmured.
Bill took a deep breath. Tried to adjust.
He thought about using his leg.
He turned his body for a mid-height kick, but his opponent was already moving. The longer leg arrived first. The impact hit Bill's thigh, draining his strength and locking his steps.
Pain.
Not enough to drop him. Enough to make him hesitate.
And hesitation there meant losing time.
The other boy pressed forward without hesitation. He didn't think. Didn't calculate. He just went. Wide punches, driving Bill back, using weight and presence.
Bill tried to answer. Tried to land something. But everything he did felt late—as if he was always reacting, always playing the other boy's game.
When he tried to close in, he was shoved away. When he tried to keep distance, he was caught. When he tried to trade blows, he lost to brute force.
A harder shove knocked him to the ground.
The improvised referee didn't need to count for long.
Bill tried to get up, but his leg failed him for a second longer than it should have.
— It's over.
The fight ended there.
Bill stayed seated on the ground for a moment, staring at his own hands. He wasn't broken. His body hadn't failed him.
But inside, it had.
In the middle of the crowd, Osborn watched in silence.
The Wasp-Man—as some had begun to call him—didn't react when Bill fell. He didn't clench his fists. He didn't look away. He simply watched until the end, as he always did.
Kerr stood beside him, uneasy.
"He froze…" Kerr murmured.
Osborn nodded slightly.
But he saw more than that.
He saw the exact moment Bill made his mistake.
The first punch—too short, thrown against someone with longer reach. A basic error in reading the opponent's stance.
The kick—slow in execution, used against someone with longer legs and aggressive reflexes.
Bill was trying to fight as if they were equals.
They weren't.
He still doesn't understand his own body, Osborn thought. He's trying to apply technique without adapting it to reality.
The problem wasn't lack of courage.
It was too much respect.
Bill respected his opponent too much. Gave him too much space. Focused on not making mistakes when he should have been thinking about imposing his own conditions.
When the fight ended, Osborn didn't go to him immediately. He watched Bill leave the area—head down, breathing hard, trying to hide his frustration.
It wasn't a useless defeat.
It was a necessary measurement.
Osborn already knew exactly what to say.
And, more importantly, he knew where to start fixing things.
Bill didn't need to get stronger first.
He needed to stop asking permission to fight.
Advance chapters: https://www.patreon.com/cw/pararaio