For once, the underground is still.

  No strikes.

  No growls.

  No forced breathing tearing at the air.

  Just the distant hum of the neon and, at the center of the room, an anatomical dummy standing upright.

  Intact.

  Waiting.

  Jason sits on the floor with his back against the wall.

  Hands on his knees.

  Breathing slowly, like he’s trying to tune his body back to a human frequency.

  Every now and then, he swallows.

  Like there’s still dust and blood in his throat, even when there’s nothing there.

  Michael stands in front of him.

  Upright.

  Arms crossed.

  Serious gaze—

  not the kind that promises pain, but a rule.

  “Today you don’t hit.”

  Pause.

  Silence.

  Jason stares at him, trying to figure out if it’s a provocation, a test, a trap.

  Michael doesn’t change expression.

  “Today…”

  “…you hold it.”

  Jason lifts his eyes.

  Confused.

  Almost offended.

  Michael gestures at the dummy, then at Jason, like he’s drawing an invisible line between them.

  “Your power isn’t just for destroying.”

  The words aren’t motivational.

  They’re cold.

  Technical.

  “Learn to pull the pressure back into your body.”

  “Like closing a valve.”

  “Like holding a bomb in your hands…”

  “…without triggering it.”

  Jason inhales.

  Slow.

  Michael continues, the same hard calm.

  “Use its energy…”

  “…without letting it explode.”

  “Channel it.”

  “Let it flow through your whole body.”

  Jason lowers his eyes to his hands.

  They’re shaking.

  Not fear—

  effort.

  Muscles contract, hard as a rope pulled to the limit.

  Veins rise, more alive than usual.

  His breathing stays slow…

  but inside, something is building.

  Heat trying to become a blast.

  Jason clenches his fist.

  And doesn’t strike.

  The air around his knuckles vibrates.

  A barely visible distortion—

  like heat warping asphalt.

  Space itself seems to hold its breath with him.

  Tension.

  The cavitation punch doesn’t fire.

  The power stays inside.

  It climbs up his forearm, grips his bicep, crosses his chest like a compressed wave searching for an exit.

  Jason bares his teeth.

  His shoulders tremble.

  But the dummy stays intact.

  No damage.

  No explosion.

  No roar to wipe everything out.

  Just silence.

  Just control.

  Michael watches without speaking.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Then a nod—

  tiny,

  but heavy as a promotion.

  Verdict.

  “Learn to be a weapon.”

  “Not an accident.”

  After.

  Michael keeps staring at the untouched dummy like he just watched a bomb choose not to explode.

  Then he grabs his keys.

  “We eat.”

  Jason gets up slowly, still tense.

  Like his body doesn’t trust the quiet.

  The underground door closes behind them with a solid sound.

  Outside, daylight feels almost fake after that neon.

  —

  The city isn’t really the city.

  It’s an edge.

  Peripheral streets.

  Distant warehouses.

  A greasy bar with a half-dead sign.

  The smell of pizza by the slice and burnt coffee.

  Normal people living without knowing what’s happening beneath the world.

  Michael comes out with two folded pizza boxes and a bottle of water.

  Jason follows with a sandwich in hand, still in training gear, still marked.

  Old bruises fading.

  New bruises just starting to live.

  Bronx walks beside them, leash loose.

  Every now and then he sniffs a pole and surveys everything like it already belongs to him.

  They sit on a metal bench.

  No romance.

  Just a pause.

  Jason takes a bite.

  Chews.

  Then goes quiet for a second, like he’s choosing his words with the same care he uses to choose his footing when he strikes.

  “Of all the punches I’ve thrown…”

  Pause.

  “…the strongest one, by far…”

  “…was the one in the alley.”

  Michael doesn’t answer right away.

  He eats.

  Looks ahead.

  Calm.

  Jason continues, lower.

  “And the recoil…”

  He swallows.

  “…was insane. Worse than anything else.”

  Michael stops chewing for half a second.

  Doesn’t look at him.

  “Because you were about to die.”

  Jason freezes.

  Michael keeps eating like he just said it’s raining.

  “That wasn’t training.”

  “That wasn’t control.”

  “That was survival.”

  Jason tightens his grip on the bottle.

  The plastic crackles.

  Michael finally turns his head.

  His eyes are serious, no irony.

  “When you’re in real danger…”

  Pause.

  “…the body stops asking permission.”

  “Stress spikes.”

  “Adrenaline wipes out your inhibitions.”

  “And you—” a sharp nod of the chin

  “—blew past your temporary limits.”

  Jason lowers his gaze.

  “But I’d already hit that day…”

  Michael gives a short, bitter half-smile.

  “Exactly.”

  “And you still did it.”

  He leans back against the bench, eyes fixed on nothing.

  “What you threw in that alley…”

  Pause.

  “…I’ve never seen anything like it up close, in the street, that clean and that brutal.”

  Jason looks up, more focused now.

  Michael continues, voice low.

  “It was almost Grade S power.”

  A longer pause.

  “Worthy of someone who levels a neighborhood if they miss.”

  Jason swallows.

  Michael hits him with the truth without raising his voice.

  “I really thought I was done.”

  “Me and Bronx.”

  Bronx, as if he caught his name, lifts his ears slightly, then goes back to calmly watching the world.

  Michael squeezes the pizza box without realizing it.

  “One second late…”

  Pause.

  “…and I’d still be lying in that alley.”

  Jason doesn’t move.

  The sentence slides into him like a slow blade.

  Michael looks at him.

  There’s no fear in Michael’s eyes.

  There’s respect.

  And a thread of restrained anger.

  “I’m Grade A.”

  “Very strong.”

  “And yet…”

  “…it wouldn’t have been enough if you’d come at me full force.”

  Jason runs a hand through his hair, restless.

  “So… it can happen again.”

  Michael doesn’t soften it.

  “It will.”

  Then he adds, flat, no theatrics:

  “In the alley… for a moment, you weren’t there.”

  “You let the body drive.”

  Jason lowers his eyes, jaw tightening.

  Michael goes on, more technical, more practical.

  “The difference is whether it happens when you’re conscious…”

  “…or when you’re empty.”

  Jason nods slowly.

  Michael takes another bite of pizza like the conversation ends there.

  Then adds, almost without looking at him:

  “That’s why I’m teaching you to hold it.”

  Jason watches the street.

  People passing.

  Cars moving.

  Normal life that knows nothing.

  And inside him, under everything, something shifts.

  Not fear.

  Awareness.

  Pistol Boy.