Chapter 5 (Joshua’s Point of View)

  I arrived at Iron Elbow just after first light, the gym’s red neon sign still sputtering out its last flickers beneath a sky thin with dawn. The heavy door thudded behind me as I entered, carrying the smell of yesterday’s sweat, chalk dust, and liniment. Before me lay the ring, its canvas stained and scuffed, and an array of battered heavy-bags hanging like silent witnesses to every bruise and bone-crack that had ever landed here. Today, I vowed, would be the hardest session yet.

  I dropped my bag by the locker, unrolled my hand wraps with methodical calm, and pressed my fingers into the cotton, feeling each ribbed contour. The wraps smelled faintly of old leather and resin from the last fight, but they tightened securely around my wrists nonetheless. I laced them over knuckles still tender from sparring two nights ago, and the snug pressure reminded me of every strike that had cracked bone and every block that had staved off disaster.

  Coach Marcos emerged from the back room, towel draped around his neck, silhouette outlined by the kitchen’s harsh fluorescent glare. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late forties, graying at the temples, eyes sharp with the focus of a lifetime spent in the ring. “Morning, Joshua,” he rumbled, voice low enough to carry in the silent gym. “Ready to bleed?”

  I nodded and pressed my mouthguard into place. “Always, Coach.”

  He led me to the heavy-bags. The first was a dented black leather cylinder, the kind that had swallowed my shoulders yesterday. I adopted my Muay Thai stance—right foot forward, left foot back, knees slightly bent, hands at chin level—and delivered a stiff front kick. The bag rocked backward with a dull thump, the vibration running up my leg. Marcos watched, arms crossed.

  “Your foot placement is good,” he said. “But drive from the hips. Not just leg.” He hooked his thumb under my armpit. “All power is kinetic chain—ground, hips, core, leg.”

  I pivoted, planting my heel, rotating my hips more fully, and struck again. This time the thump resonated deeper, like a sledgehammer driving through wood. I felt the difference: my glutes and core had fired up, channeling energy from the earth through my entire body.

  Marcos nodded approvingly. “Better.”

  We moved through combinations—jab-cross, low kick, teep, elbow, clinch drill. With each strike, sweat beaded at my hairline, dripped into my eyes, and mixed with the chalk dust floating in the overhead light. My gloves became soaked, my shorts clung heavy with moisture. The gym had the oppressive warmth of a steam chamber, and every breath felt thick with ammonia from the cleaning solvent yesterday.

  After twenty minutes, Marcos said, “Pad work.” He strapped on Thai pads and motioned me forward. I launched into jab-cross-hook combinations, rotating hips, driving off the back foot, my knuckles crashing into the thick foam with bone-jarring impact. The air around me shimmered with each exhalation. Marcos held the pads steady, absorbing every strike, then offered a fleeting smile.

  “Power’s there,” he said between breaths. “Speed’s solid. But your guard drops after the cross. See?” He replayed my motion, hands falling too low.

  I reset, channeling focus into the safety of my guard, and struck again. This time my elbows tracked cleanly back, protecting my chin. Marcos nodded, eyes bright.

  We transitioned to clinch work. He yanked me into a tight embrace, my forehead pressed against his collarbone. Under his guidance, I learned to circle, off-balance him, drive my knee into the floating ribs. Each knee strike made him grunt, tested my core stability. My quads burned, my breath came in ragged rasps, but my strikes found their mark over and over.

  “Good clinch strength,” he said. “You’ve improved since last week.”

  During a short water break, I wiped my face with a towel and downed a bottle. My throat still tasted of liniment and coppery sweat. Coach watched me, brow furrowed.

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  “You’ve come a long way for someone who says he’s ‘just training,’” he said. “Tell me, Joshua—what’s your goal here?”

  I paused, water bottle halfway to my lips. “Survival,” I replied, letting out a harsh chuckle. “Strength, speed—everything I learn here, I need it out there.” I nodded toward the ring. “I’m… preparing for something bigger.”

  Marcos studied me, gaze unreadable. “You’ve got talent. Discipline. And grit. Ever consider competition?”

  My heart stuttered. “Competition?”

  He smiled, tapping the ring ropes. “Local amateur tour. Next month. Few divisions—light heavyweight. I think you’d do well.”

  I swallowed, memories of roamer fights flashing in my mind. A competition meant rules, referees, safety precautions—nothing like the savage world beyond the Gate. Yet the sting of fear-driven fury felt oddly akin to fight adrenaline.

  “How serious are you?” he asked.

  I set down the bottle, shoulders squared. “I’m serious as iron.”

  A slow grin spread under his trimmed beard. “Then we’ll sign you up. But you’ll push harder. Twice-daily sessions. Diet restrictions. No more half-measures.”

  I nodded. “I’m ready, Coach.”

  The second half of training was a blur of sprints, bag work, and partner drills. We sparred lightly—gloves tapping masks—until my guard felt unnatural, my stance instinctive, my elbows poised like bayonets. Every punch, every kick, had to count. When the final bell rang—an echoing clang from the metal rim—I sank to one knee in the ring, gasping. My shorts and gloves were drenched, and my vision spun from exhaustion.

  Marcos climbed through the ropes and stood beside me, hand on my shoulder. “Good work,” he said quietly. “You’ve earned it.”

  I looked up at him, chest heaving. “Thank you.”

  We sat in the empty gym as the noon sun fell through the high windows. Dust motes drifted in golden columns, drifting like ash. Marcos handed me a towel and a bottle of water.

  “You understand what competition means?” he asked.

  I wiped my forehead. “It means risk. But it’s nowhere near the risk I face out there.” I gestured faintly beyond the windows. “Here, it’s controlled. I want that. I need that.”

  He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ll register you. It’s local—no travel. Some money in prizes, a few sponsors looking for fighters with real stories. Might be a way for you to fund… other pursuits.” He tapped his temple. “Use that head of yours. Money from tournaments can buy you more gear, more supplies.”

  A spark of hope ignited in my chest: prize money to buy bulk food, new boots, a sturdier bike. Perhaps even enough to pay for a U-Haul to haul plywood on our next Gate run.

  I drew a deep breath, the smell of sweat and liniment swirling in my nostrils. “I’ll do it,” I said.

  Marcos stood, wiped his palms on his shorts, and clapped me on the back. “Good. We start preparing for the amateur card in two weeks—so you’ve got time to sharpen those edges. Think about your weight class, your style. Traditional strikes, clinch game—whatever you use to win.”

  As I dressed, each movement slow with fatigue and satisfaction, I realized something: this gym had become more than a training ground. It was a forge, molding my fear and anger into purpose and power.

  By the time I left Iron Elbow, my gloves were hung to dry, my muscles still humming with the day’s work, and my mind racing with competition plans. The city outside looked unchanged—garbage-littered streets, silent barricades—but I felt different. Sharper. Ready to test myself under the bright glare of ring lights, not just the dim flicker of copper doors.

  Because out there, in the controlled chaos of a sanctioned fight, I could gather resources—money, gear, allies—that would make all the difference when I once again Stepped into Anna’s world a world of feral death and merciless survival.

  And so I started walking home, each step a promise: in two weeks, I would step into a ring not for trophies or glory, but for the means to stay alive—both here and beyond the Door.