"Yes," Javier whispered, pressing his finger to the glowing button.
A golden light burst through the dormitory, filling the air like liquid fire. It pulsed from Javier’s chest, connecting him to Vicente’s ghostly form with every beat of his heart. Static buzzed along his skin. The air snapped with electricity.
Nobody else stirred. Tommy Vega rolled over, mumbling something about his mom’s cooking. Carlos kept snoring. The light show might as well have been a dream—just for Javier.
Vicente’s shape slowly came into focus. Blurred edges sharpened into clear lines. His face, his shoulders, the brown leather gloves hanging from his belt—they all looked solid now, almost too real.
"Incredible," Vicente said, staring down at his hands. "I can feel... something. Substance."
Across Javier’s vision, a translucent interface flickered to life like a projection screen—green lines and numbers hanging in the air.
Name: Javier Restrepo
Fighting Record: 0-0-0
[PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES]
Strength: Level 1 (3/100)
Speed: Level 1 (7/100)
Endurance: Level 1 (2/100)
Technique: Level 1 (1/100)
Vicente leaned in. "So this is it. The system."
"Clear as day." He nodded. "Heard whispers about systems ... between places. Didn’t think I’d ever see one in action."
Javier frowned. His stats looked pathetic. Strength barely out of elementary school. Endurance in the basement. Only his speed seemed mildly respectable—and even that was stretching it.
"These numbers suck."
"Everyone starts somewhere," Vicente said. "I’ve seen world champions with worse beginnings. It’s not where you start, it’s how far you’re willing to go."
More text rolled across the interface.
[TRAINING RECOMMENDATION]
Status: Untrained Civilian
Suggested Action: Begin basic conditioning and technique work
Optimal Environment: Boxing gym with skilled instruction
"It wants me to train," Javier muttered.
"Smart system. Most fighters rush past the basics and never recover. Foundation comes first."
The breakfast bell rang, shrill and sudden. Golden light faded. The interface shrunk to a pulsing dot in the corner of his vision.
"Move it, ladies!" barked Grey Williams, the dorm supervisor. "Bathroom rotation, now!"
Boys groaned and peeled themselves from bed. Some still half-asleep. They shuffled toward the bathrooms in boxers and baggy tees. First group at the sinks. Second group straight into cold showers with zero privacy. State care didn’t offer comfort.
Javier grabbed his brush and a nearly-empty tube of toothpaste. The mirror was cracked—his reflection split into pieces. Vicente stood behind him like a silent ghost, just real enough to make him flinch.
"Relax," Vicente said. "No one else sees me. You’re not crazy."
"Right," Javier muttered, scrubbing his teeth.
Next to him, Tommy Vega squirted foam into the sink. "You talking to yourself again? That’s creepy, dude."
Three minutes later, the hot water cut off. Everyone cursed. Cold needles stabbed down from rusty pipes. Javier scrubbed fast with the scratchy state-issued washcloth.
Back in the dorm, they dressed in d clothes that almost fit. Javier tugged on faded jeans and a Lakers jersey with holes near the shoulder. The system’s icon glowed faintly in his vision, tracking every heartbeat.
They marched in a line to the cafeteria. Mrs. Rodriguez handed out trays—rubbery scrambled eggs, blackened toast, watered-down orange juice.
"Eat up, boys. Growing bodies need fuel," she called.
Javier pushed food around his tray. Vicente sat beside him, watching quietly.
"Tastes like punishment," he said. "Reminds me of meals during my early fights. You eat long enough, it makes you appreciate a real steak."
Tommy slid into the chair beside him. "You coming to the gym today? Miguel’s got new bags."
"Hope you last longer than Mario. Kid puked during warm-ups last week."
"I won’t quit," Javier said.
Tommy raised a brow. "Didn’t know you already tried."
Javier caught himself. "First time. I meant first time."
Cafeteria buzzed with half-awake conversation. Arguments about NBA trades, girls they’d never meet, how long they could hold their breath. Normal stuff—except everyone here was stuck in a system that didn’t care.
They left after breakfast. Fifteen-minute walk to Brownsville Rec Center. Sidewalks cracked. Storefronts gated. Bulletproof glass in every corner store. Nothing had changed.
Vicente walked beside him like a shadow with weight.
"I trained in places ," he said. "Back then, all we had was grit. That’s all you need."
"What made the good ones stand out?"
"Hunger. Not just for food, but for more. For a life that didn’t stop at the block."
They passed a mural—old neighborhood champions painted in fading colors.
"Every one of those guys started like you. Nobody. Until they made themselves something."
The rec center was a converted warehouse. Concrete floors. Hanging lights. The smell hit like a punch—sweat, canvas, disinfectant.
Javier smiled. He remembered that smell. Four years ago. Five years from now.
Miguel Santos stood by the entrance. Big hands. One lazy eye from a career-ending left hook.
"Welcome back, boys," Miguel said. "Let’s get to work."