During boxing practice, Johnny felt—if not completely at ease—at least in familiar territory. Here, he could let his instincts loose while still maintaining an illusion of control.

  He stood in the corner of the ring, zily putting on his gloves. The coach, as usual, was pairing up fighters, giving newcomers a chance to learn from the more experienced ones. When Johnny’s turn came, he gave a brief nod.

  "Your opponent today is a newbie—don’t disappoint me," the coach said, with a hint of pride in his voice.

  Johnny silently eyed the guy in front of him. Skinny, unsteady stance—he looked like someone had dragged him here against his will.

  He could have refused. The smarter fighters did, not wanting to waste time on training a rookie.

  Johnny would have liked to do the same, but he couldn’t. He was Barton Bze’s son. As the son of the future commissioner, he was expected to be friendly.

  If he had to py the golden boy, he’d py the role properly—no sighing or rolling his eyes.

  "Don’t worry, I won’t kill you," Johnny said smoothly, dodging the newbie’s clumsy punches.

  He moved mechanically, practicing dodges and blocks. His strikes were precise but restrained—just enough to let the kid feel where his weaknesses were.

  "Keep your elbows up," Johnny said, nding a light jab in the opening. "And protect your head."

  The newbie mumbled something but did his best to follow the advice. Johnny continued the fight, even letting the kid nd a few hits so he could build confidence.

  After three rounds, the coach finally rang the bell.

  "That’s enough for the newbie’s first time," the coach said with a pleased smile, then walked over to Johnny’s corner. "You did a good job as a trainer too. In ten years, you could repce me!"

  The coach ughed, but Johnny didn’t share his amusement. He wanted to get stronger, not teach others.

  "I could’ve assigned him to someone else," the coach said, gncing at the fighters. "Someone older and… less reasonable. They would’ve beaten him down so badly he’d never come back. But look at him now after sparring with you."

  Johnny turned to see the newbie admiring himself in the mirror. Apparently, when Johnny had deliberately taken a weak hit to the headgear, it had boosted the kid’s confidence.

  "See?" The coach smirked. "Right now, he’s like a newly hatched chick. He needs encouragement, guidance, and support—not to be thrown out of the nest immediately. In six months, he’ll be sparring like a real boxer. And that’s thanks to you. You know when to use force and when to lift someone up. That’s why you’re the captain."

  Johnny gave a slight nod as he took off his gloves. Despite the coach’s warm words, he didn’t see himself as a real leader—and he doubted he’d ever be ready to lead others.

  The noise in the gym was suddenly repced by a scream. One of the guys had dropped a barbell on his foot, his face contorted in pain.

  Without hesitation, Johnny jumped over the ropes of the ring and rushed to the injured man.

  "Don't move!" he ordered, pushing away the curious onlookers who were only getting in the way.

  The coach was pacing nearby, gncing at the empty nurse’s office.

  "Where the hell is she?"

  Johnny calmly opened the first-aid kit that one of the guys had brought.

  "No time to wait for her," he said coolly, quickly assessing the injury.

  His movements were confident, almost mechanical. He swiftly unced the sneaker on the injured foot and numbed the trauma. It took less than two minutes.

  "Were you a scout or something?" the coach asked, looking at him in amazement.

  Johnny took the opportunity to ignore the question.

  "Possible fracture. He needs an X-ray," he told the injured guy before standing up and wiping his hands. "You should go to the hospital."

  "Bze, I used to think the rumors about you becoming a doctor were ridiculous, but now…" The coach fell silent, as if making a decision. "Your fists aren’t just for the ring, they’re for helping people too. Maybe you should consider volunteering at a hospital? I know someone who could help you get in. It’d look great on your med school application. You’d be Dr. Bze."

  Johnny was about to politely refuse. After all, he studied medicine for himself, not to treat others.

  A burning heat fred inside his skull, as if someone had stuffed red-hot coals into it. Clenching his teeth and mumbling something unintelligible, Johnny quickly headed for the showers.

  He turned on the cold water and shoved his head under the stream. The sharp temperature contrast made a hissing sound, like hot metal being plunged into water. Steam filled the shower.

  [The fire almost broke free and burned down the entire gym,] he thought, relishing the cooling relief. [I need to let it out tonight.]

  Johnny pulled up a hidden contact on his phone and, with slightly shaking fingers, sent a message: "Need a fight. Urgent."

  He turned off the water, dried his hair with a towel, and stepped out of the shower. Outside, the coach was waiting with a worried expression.

  "You okay?" he asked, nervously spinning his stopwatch. "You turned red and bolted. I swear, it even looked like you had steam coming out of your ears!"

  He wasn’t wrong…

  "It’s just nerves," Johnny forced a smile. "Still not used to situations like that."

  "Well, that just takes experience," the coach smirked, though he clearly suspected something more serious. "You did great today. Think about my offer—volunteering at the hospital would help you gain experience, and it’d make college applications easier."

  [I should fix myself first before helping others…]