Michael stops at the center, back turned.
Then he turns, calm.
Hands in his pockets.
Relaxed posture.
Too relaxed for someone about to ask something like that.
“Go on.”
A pause.
“Come at me.”
Eyes locked.
“Attack me like you want to kill me.”
Jason laughs nervously, more to dump tension than out of humor.
“Uh… kill you…”
Michael’s gaze goes cold.
“We’re not playing.”
“Grow a pair and mean it.”
A beat.
“The only one getting hurt here… is you.”
Jason goes pale for half a second.
Not because of the threat.
Because of how certain it sounds.
He inhales hard.
Re-centers.
Gets into guard.
Shoulders low. Hands up.
His body tries to remember what he’s seen in videos and gyms.
But his heart wants only one thing: break something.
And he goes.
Jason bursts forward.
A barrage of crude, powerful punches.
Strikes that don’t look for a target—they look for an ending.
Every swing is rage and fear compressed.
Michael dodges them all.
Calm.
Hands still in his pockets.
Face almost bored.
Jason keeps going. One-two. Hook. Straight. Again.
He crashes forward like a wave.
Michael shifts a few centimeters each time.
He barely seems to move…
and yet Jason never touches anything.
Air.
Void.
Nothing.
Jason slows.
Gasping.
Michael speaks like he’s commenting on a mediocre workout.
“That all you’ve got?”
Jason clenches his teeth.
He comes again, harder.
Punches. Kicks.
Rage bloats his movements, makes them bigger, louder, easier to read.
Michael lifts a leg and checks.
Two punches. A kick.
He absorbs it without changing expression.
Then— a sharp front kick to the torso.
THUD.
Jason gets launched backward and hits the ground.
The air detonates out of his lungs.
Stars and hate flood his vision.
He struggles for breath, folded in half.
Then he gets back up.
And goes back in.
He shoots for the hips, a desperate grab.
Like strength could replace technique.
Like squeezing and dragging would be enough.
Michael slides aside, fluid.
Jason spins, loads a straight punch.
Detail.
Veins along his forearm tighten, light up under the skin.
Heat.
Ready to spill.
A too much pushing.
Michael sees it.
And doesn’t wait.
He grabs the arm.
Pulls him in with a short motion.
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Throw.
A perfect lever.
Jason flies and slams flat on his back on the concrete.
BOOM.
The impact snaps the breath out of him.
Shuts his brain off for a moment.
Brief black.
When his eyes open again, the ceiling is far away
and he’s back on the ground like a sack.
Jason pants.
Chest burning.
Back pulsing.
Nose bleeding again.
Michael stands over him.
Calm.
Like he hasn’t even started.
“Strong body.”
A small nod.
“Powerful.”
Then the voice turns merciless.
“But you have no idea how to use it.”
A quick, clinical glance.
“You’re like a rhinoceros…”
“…wrapped in plaster.”
Silence.
Jason grits his teeth and tries to get up,
but his legs shake.
Not fear.
Frustration.
Michael stops him with a sentence.
“That’s enough for today.”
“You’ve taken enough hits.”
Jason drags himself up slowly.
Hurting everywhere.
The bandage on his nose already filthy.
His shirt sticks to his skin.
He spits to the side— blood and saliva.
“Yeah… enough?”
Michael looks at him.
A pause.
A faint smile.
Small.
Almost annoying.
“Maybe…”
A beat.
“…you’re not a lost cause.”
Then he walks away.
Jason stays there, covered in bruises, blood, scrapes.
And yet—
a half-smile settles on his face.
Not happiness.
Pure determination.
—
A couple of days later.
Michael’s car glides over the asphalt like a tired animal.
Inside, the air is thick and tense.
Jason is pale.
Cold sweat on his forehead.
Hands clenched on his knees like he’s anchoring himself to the seat, trying not to get dragged away by what he’s done.
Michael drives one-handed, elbow on the door.
Eyes forward.
Calm in a way that’s irritating—almost offensive.
Bronx huffs in the back seat, snout against the window, eyes half-closed.
Bored.
Or ready.
They pass the park—
It’s sealed off.
Drones buzzing low over the trees.
OPOM tape stretched between poles and trunks like a pulled wound.
Soldiers and techs moving fast, suits and vests, bent over the ground.
An area lit even in daylight, like there’s guilt that needs highlighting.
Jason looks.
His gaze empties.
Inside, it’s just noise.
No pauses.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I’m fucked.
Michael throws him a sideways glance without changing tone.
A short, cruel smile.
“Look at that audience…”
Pause.
“Seems you’ve got admirers.”
Jason swallows.
His throat is paper-dry.
Michael keeps going.
“My young artist.”
A half-grin slips out.
“You made a masterpiece…”
“…a real work of art.”
“Congratulations.”
Jason looks at him sideways.
He doesn’t know whether to laugh or throw up.
Then, suddenly, Michael goes serious.
“Now breathe.”
“Panicking doesn’t do shit.”
Jason clenches his jaw.
His voice comes out low, shaking.
“They find me.”
A broken pause.
“They arrest me… or worse.”
Michael doesn’t move.
Doesn’t raise his voice.
Doesn’t play dad.
“Calm down.”
“Rule one: when you’re scared, you don’t decide.”
“You drive.”
“You breathe.”
And then, without mercy:
“And you do what I tell you.”
Jason swallows another knot.
Michael accelerates slightly, like he’s escaping boredom, not a military organization.
“You need to vent.”
“And I need to understand your power before you actually kill me.”
Jason stares at him.
He can’t tell if it’s a joke or a threat.
Michael keeps it practical.
“Since I could realistically die from one of your punches…”
“…now we find out what you can do.”
“Limits. Reaction. Costs.”
He takes a turn.
“I’m taking you to a nice little spot.”
“Far from prying eyes.”
Bronx snorts, like he agrees.
Then the world outside changes.
The city thins out.
Houses become warehouses.
Warehouses become fields.
Fields become nothing.
Forty minutes that feel like two hours.
Kilometers of emptiness.
And the fixed idea that, somewhere,
someone is already reconstructing the sound of that hit.
Pistol Boy.
