In the evening, inside the house, the air changes.

  It’s no longer that underground pressure.

  It’s softer.

  Warmer.

  Like the walls are trying to fake normality.

  The living room is lit low and calm.

  Minimal furniture—but now it almost feels… lived in.

  Jason walks through with a steaming mug of tea in his hands.

  The vapor rises to his face and, for a moment, gives him the illusion that everything is simple.

  Under their feet, though, the arena is still there.

  And he knows it.

  From somewhere in the house, a voice carries—distant, like a bullet fired without much aim.

  “You owe me a new wall, Raden!”

  Jason drops his gaze to the cup.

  A small smile forms—guilty, fake-innocent.

  Under his breath, like he’s talking to the tea.

  “I swear that wall was looking at me funny…”

  A deep laugh comes back from the other room.

  This time, Jason smiles for real.

  Because it feels good to be human for five seconds.

  —

  Time slides.

  Days, weeks, months.

  They blur together.

  Then again: tatami.

  Neon.

  Sweat.

  Michael and Jason fight.

  Jason’s hair is longer now.

  His physique sharper, more defined—more built.

  Like every day added a piece of steel and stripped away a piece of chaos.

  Exchanges.

  Fast strikes.

  Dodges.

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  Clean blocks.

  Technique.

  Power.

  Control.

  The triad that didn’t exist before.

  Michael pressures him.

  Cuts him off.

  Drags him where he wants.

  A feint.

  A clinch.

  Jason loses his axis.

  Impact.

  He hits the ground.

  Bruises obvious.

  A reddened shoulder.

  A light cut on his lip.

  But no grimace.

  Just breathing.

  Presence.

  Like the body learned how to take hits without breaking.

  Michael looks down at him, satisfied.

  “I see the training paid off.”

  Then comes that affectionate cruelty of his—the kind that tastes like a slap and approval at the same time.

  “You’re not a whiny little kid who can’t throw a punch anymore.”

  Jason stays on the floor for a second, stares at the ceiling, catches his breath.

  Michael presses on, like passing a sentence.

  “Let’s say you’re finally decent.”

  Pause.

  “Decent enough not to kill someone by accident.”

  Jason smiles from the ground, ironic.

  “Oh, thank you…”

  He wipes blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

  “Please, don’t strain yourself with the compliments.”

  Michael doesn’t laugh.

  His tone changes.

  Not volume.

  Weight.

  “Now that you’re decent…”

  Pause.

  The underground seems to listen.

  “It’s time to verify everything you’ve learned.”

  Jason sits up, instantly more alert.

  His gaze tightens.

  Michael continues.

  “There’s a place where you can test all of this.”

  And the room seems to cool again, like the underground rose up into the walls.

  Michael lowers his voice and the words arrive like a shadow.

  “No rules.”

  “Just flesh and blood.”

  Then the question—clean, sharp.

  “Interested?”

  Jason stands up slowly.

  Every movement controlled.

  No rush.

  No hesitation.

  His eyes are hard.

  Determined.

  Simple answer.

  “Yes.”

  A beat.

  “Sounds very interesting…”

  And then, without smiling too much—

  but with that hunger he never really lost:

  “I’m already itching.”

  Pistol Boy.