"You better not be dragging your sister into some nonsense again."
His mother's voice cut through the morning quiet like a blade. Marcus stood in the kitchen doorway, shirtless, purple bruises painting his ribs in ugly splotches. The old ceiling fan wheezed overhead, pushing stale air around their cramped apartment.
Mama sat at their rickety table, nursing black coffee from a chipped mug. Her nurse scrubs were wrinkled, hair pulled back in a messy bun. Dark circles under her eyes said she'd pulled another double shift. Always another double shift.
The empty chair across from her remained untouched. Dad's chair. Still there after two years, like she was hoping he'd walk back through the front door with some half-decent excuse and a pocket full of promises.
Zara glanced at that empty spot, then looked away fast. She always did that. Quick little stab of pain across her features before the walls came back up.
"I'm not dragging anyone anywhere," Marcus said, grabbing a piece of bread from the counter. His voice came out steadier than it should have for a sixteen-year-old.
Mama's eyes tracked the bruises on his torso. "Boxing."
Not a question. A statement wrapped in disappointment.
"Yeah."
"That coach of yours filling your head with pipe dreams again?"
Marcus chewed slowly. In his first life, this conversation had gone differently. Shouting. Accusations. Him storming out like an entitled brat while Mama worked herself to death trying to keep them afloat.
Not this time.
"Just training," he said quietly. "Getting better."
Zara watched the exchange like she was studying for a test. Nine years old and already too smart, too aware of the weight pressing down on all of them.
"You always look like you're somewhere else," she said finally.
The words hit deeper than they should have. Marcus met her eyes—sharp, curious, missing nothing.
"Maybe I am."
"Where?"
Good question. Where was he? Sixteen again but carrying twenty-six years of failure. Living in a body that felt foreign, chasing dreams that had already killed him once.
"Somewhere better," he said.
Mama snorted. "Better's what you make it, not what you dream it."
She stood, grabbed her purse, headed for the door. Another twelve-hour shift at Erasmus Medical Center. Another day of cleaning up other people's messes while her own family fell apart in slow motion.
"Walk your sister to school," she said without looking back. "And Marcus?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't make me regret letting you do this."
The door slammed. Silence settled over the apartment like dust.
Zara stared at her cereal, pushing soggy flakes around the bowl. "She's scared," she said quietly.
"Of what?"
"That you'll turn out like him."
The words hung in the air between them. Their father—charming, reckless, always chasing the next big score. Always promising things would be different tomorrow.
Marcus felt something cold settle in his stomach. "I'm not him."
"I know." Zara looked up, those sharp eyes boring into his skull. "You're different. But different how? Good different or bad different?"
Another question he couldn't answer. Not yet.
"Finish your breakfast. We're gonna be late."
The walk to Zara's school took them through their neighborhood—narrow streets lined with row houses, Turkish bakeries, Surinamese restaurants. Working class. Honest. The kind of place where dreams went to die quietly.
They passed the corner of Bergweg and Noordsingel. Marcus tensed.
This spot. He remembered this spot.
Three years from now—in his first timeline—he'd been walking home from a disastrous amateur fight. Drunk on shame and cheap beer. Five kids had jumped him right here, beaten him bloody, taken his wallet and what was left of his dignity.
The beginning of the end.
But that was then. This was now.
"You okay?" Zara asked, noticing how he'd gone rigid.
"Fine." He forced his shoulders to relax. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
"How things change."
They reached her school—a squat brick building surrounded by chain-link fence. Kids streamed through the gates, backpacks bouncing, voices mixing into white noise.
"Marcus?"
"Yeah?"
Zara hesitated, chewing her lower lip. "Whatever you're doing at that gym... just be careful, okay? Mama can't handle losing someone else."
She disappeared into the crowd before he could respond.
Marcus stood there for a long moment, watching her go. Nine years old and already carrying weight that would break most adults.
Not this time. This time would be different.
He turned and started walking home.
Halfway there, the system chimed.
`───── SYSTEM MISSION ───────`
`[Strength Challenge]`
`Complete 50 Push-ups (non-stop)`
`Reward: Strength +1`
`Penalty: Arm fatigue (1 hour tomorrow)`
`──────────────────────`
Marcus stopped. Looked around. Empty alley between two apartment buildings. Good enough.
He dropped to the concrete, hands flat against the cold ground. Started pushing.
One. Two. Three.
His shoulders burned by twenty. Arms shook by thirty. By forty, sweat dripped onto the dirty pavement beneath him.
Forty-five. Forty-six. Forty-seven.
His elbows trembled. Everything in his body screamed to quit. Just like it always had.
But quitting was the old Marcus. The failed Marcus. The one who'd died on canvas in front of forty people who didn't give a damn.
Forty-eight. Forty-nine.
"This isn't just about boxing," he grunted through gritted teeth. "This is about me changing everything."
Fifty.
He collapsed, chest heaving, concrete cold against his cheek. But he'd done it. Fifty perfect push-ups without stopping.
The system chimed approval.
Twenty minutes later, he pushed through the doors of De Haven Boxing Club.
The gym buzzed with nervous energy. Something was different. Kids clustered around the bulletin board, voices low and intense.
Marcus worked his way through the crowd and saw it.
The bracket.
Eight names written in Coach Ruud's precise handwriting. Four matchups. Two weeks until fight night.
Marcus Dorsey vs. Elroy Adams.
His blood went cold.
Elroy. Built like a fire hydrant, hands like hammers, scars on his cheek from street fights that had nothing to do with sport. The kind of kid who fought dirty when he thought nobody was looking.
Marcus scanned the other matchups. Jamal Demir vs. Rico Santos—that would be technical, fast-paced. Kevin de Vries vs. Ahmed Hassan—two sluggers who'd try to take each other's heads off. Thomas Bakker vs. Yuki Tanaka—experience versus youth.
"Two weeks from now, four matches."
Coach Ruud's voice cut through the chatter. The crowd parted, giving him space in front of the bracket board.
"One winner from each fight. Those four go to regionals. The rest..." He shrugged. "Train harder next time."
No sympathy. No consolation prizes. Just cold, brutal reality.
"You want to represent this gym? Earn it."
Gloves tightened around the ring. Jaws clenched. These kids had trained together, sweated together, become brothers. Now they'd have to hurt each other for a chance at something bigger.
Welcome to boxing.
Training began like any other day. Mitt work with Samira, the assistant coach. She held the pads steady, called out combinations, corrected his form when it drifted.
"Your jab's drifting again. Snappy, not lazy."
Marcus nodded, adjusted, threw the punch clean. No ego. No argument. Just fix the mistake and move on.
Across the gym, someone was talking about Elroy's last sparring session. How he'd dropped Kevin with a liver shot that left the kid puking for ten minutes.
Marcus listened while he worked. Mental notes. Patterns. Weaknesses.
Elroy was strong, aggressive, loved to pressure forward. But he dropped his right hand when he threw the left hook. Telegraph his power shots by shifting his weight. Got frustrated when opponents moved too much.
All useful information.
The session ended with everyone exhausted. Sweat-soaked, wrung out, pushed to their limits. Just another day at De Haven.
Marcus's phone buzzed.
`──────SYSTEM UPDATE ────────`
`Push-Up Mission Completed`
`Strength +1`
`Reminder: Stat gain lowers with repetition`
`───────────────────────`
Interesting. The system was adapting, making sure he couldn't just grind the same exercises forever. He'd have to find new ways to improve.
Good. Easy was how you got soft.
Marcus grabbed his bag and headed for the exit. The gym was emptying out, kids walking home to normal lives. Homework and dinner and parents who worried about grades instead of brain damage.
He took the long way home. Past familiar streets, through neighborhoods that held too many memories. Some good, most bad.
The alley where he'd been jumped was quiet now. Just shadows and evening breeze. No ghosts waiting to drag him backward.
He'd walked this path before, in another life. Beaten down, broken, convinced the world owed him something he'd never earn.
Tonight felt different. Tonight felt like progress.
Marcus turned the corner and headed back toward De Haven. One more look at that bracket board. One more reminder of what was coming.
The gym was locked, but he could see through the windows. That white sheet of paper hanging on the wall like a death sentence.
Marcus Dorsey vs. Elroy Adams.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
"Checking out the competition?"
Marcus turned. Elroy Adams leaned against the alley wall, chewing gum, that cocky smirk splitting his scarred face. Bigger up close. Meaner looking.
"Just reading," Marcus said quietly.
"Good. Hope you're not too soft, Dorsey." Elroy stepped closer, bubble gum popping between his teeth. "I like it when they cry."