Chapter 1 — Why It's Daily
Morning never arrives gently.
It crashes.
The alarm screams at 5:00 a.m., but I'm already awake—staring at the ceiling, fists clenched, jaw tight. My body aches in familiar places: knuckles split, ribs sore, legs heavy. Pain isn't a warning anymore. It's a reminder.
Another day.
Another fight.
I swing my legs off the bed and tape my hands without looking. Muscle memory does the work. Wrap. Pull. Tighten. My reflection in the cracked mirror looks back at me like an enemy—dark circles under the eyes, scars mapping every mistake I ever survived.
People ask why I fight every day.
They don't understand the question is wrong.
It's not why.
It's because.
Because weakness gets hunted.
Because mercy runs out.
Because if I stop—even once—the world won't.
Outside, the street breathes violence. Rusted shutters, broken glass, walls layered with old gang marks like territorial scars. This place doesn't sleep. It waits.
I start running.
Five kilometers. No music. No excuses. Every breath burns, every step pounds the ground like a promise. When my lungs scream, I run harder. When my legs shake, I push faster. Comfort is a luxury for people who don't get tested daily.
Behind the abandoned factory, the real training begins.
Shadowboxing first—slow, precise. Left jab. Right cross. Elbow. Knee. I imagine faces. Real ones. The kind that smile before they swing.
Then the bag.
Each punch lands with a dull, violent thud. The bag swings back like it wants revenge. I welcome it.
"Again," I mutter.
Punch.
Punch.
Kick.
My knuckles split open. Blood stains the tape. I don't stop.
That's when footsteps echo.
Not random.
Too confident.
I turn.
Three of them. Broad shoulders. Street-fighter stance. One cracks his neck. Another grins like this is entertainment.
"Yo," the tallest one says, "you train hard for someone who's gonna lose anyway."
I exhale slowly.
Here it is.
The reason it's daily.
He rushes first—wild right hook. I slip inside, elbow to the jaw. Bone meets bone. He drops. No drama.
Second guy goes low for my legs. Bad choice. Knee meets face. He folds.
The third hesitates. Smart. Too late.
I step forward, eyes locked, heartbeat calm. He swings desperate. I block, counter, and drive my fist into his stomach—once, twice—until the fight leaves his body.
Silence returns.
My hands shake—not from fear, but from restraint.
I stand there, breathing, blood dripping from my knuckles onto concrete that's already seen too much.
This isn't victory.
This is maintenance.
I pick up my bag and walk away as sirens cry somewhere far off.
Tomorrow, it'll happen again.
Different faces. Same outcome.
That's the truth no one likes.
This is why it's daily.
And this is only the beginning.