CHAPTER 58: CHAPTER 58: SEMIFINAL - FIRST EXCHANGE

Javier stepped into the training area, leaving Tommy’s corner behind. The air smelled like disinfectant mixed with sweat and old leather. Jump ropes snapped against concrete and gloves popped against focus mitts. These were the usual gym sounds that calmed him.

But Tommy’s defeat sat heavy in his chest like a stone he could not swallow.

A fighter came from across the room with his hands already wrapped and a calm grin that never reached his eyes. He was average height with a solid build and the loose walk of someone who had been here before. He stopped close enough for Javier to catch mint on his breath.

Chris angled in, voice smooth. "So you’re Javier. I’m Chris Martinez. The one facing you tonight."

The tone rang false, a cushion before the shove.

Chris tilted his head toward Tommy and Danny. "Your boy just lost pretty bad. Must be rough. Especially for kids like you. Orphans."

Javier held his ground. His jaw stayed tight and his fingers curled into his palms.

Chris waited for a flinch, then leaned closer. "He looked like a heavy bag with legs. That your crew from Gleason’s? Cute. All that Instagram mitt work and no wins. Brooklyn charity cases. You step up to real East New York smoke tonight."

Silence stretched. Javier’s eyes never moved.

Chris searched for a crack. "Say something. Orphan fights for pity. That it?"

Vicente’s voice threaded in low, a steady line through the noise. "He wants a discount on your peace. Charge full price. Breathe. Count each breath. Own your space."

Javier drew air through his nose, held it, then let it go slow. He gave Chris no answer.

A soft blue glow opened in his peripheral vision.

[OPPONENT DETECTED: CHRIS MARTINEZ]

[GYM: ATLAS COPS & KIDS BOXING CLUB]

[RECORD: 3-1 AMATEUR]

[STYLE: BOXER-PUNCHER]

[STANCE: ORTHODOX]

[CORE STATS]

STRENGTH: Level 2 (24/100)

SPEED: Level 2 (22/100)

ENDURANCE: Level 2 (26/100)

TECHNIQUE: Level 2 (28/100)

POWER: Level 2 (29/100)

RING IQ: Level 2 (21/100)

FOOTWORK: Level 2 (26/100)

DEFENSE: Level 2 (23/100)

[SKILL] Parry-and-Hook Counter: Level 23

Javier read the numbers and kept his face calm. He saw a solid fighter with nothing special on paper. The parry-and-hook was the weapon.

Another window formed, new in shape and tone.

[NEW MODE UNLOCKED]

MISSION MODE Context: Competitive bout pressure detected.

[ACTIVE MISSION]

Objective 1: Land 10 clean jabs in Round 1.

Objective 2: Win the fight by knockout.

Reward: +50 Stat Points (free allocation).

A small, dangerous smile touched the corner of his mouth. The system had evolved; targets were set and the reward was massive.

Chris kept looking for a spark. His grin thinned. "You freeze up, kid? That right hand is all talk in Brooklyn. We shut that down in East New York before breakfast."

Javier let the smile fade. His voice stayed flat. "We will talk in the ring."

The PA crackled to life. "Novice welterweight semifinal fighters report to staging. Javier Restrepo versus Chris Martinez."

Miguel arrived with the corner bag and set a firm palm on Javier’s arm. "Time to go."

They moved for staging. Chris drifted beside them as if this were friendly, yet tension carried a different story. The head games had failed.

Officials worked through checks with practised speed: hand wraps inspected and initialled; event gloves issued and taped on; headgear fitted and adjusted; mouthguard checked; groin protector verified; a light smear of petroleum jelly across cheeks and brows.

The referee scanned fingernails and tape edges for both fighters. Everything had to meet USA Boxing standards.

The marshal pointed. "Red corner for Restrepo, blue corner for Martinez."

Miguel turned Javier by the shoulders and kept his instruction clean and close. "Feet first. Own the centre. Touch his chest with the jab, then lift it to his head. Do not load. Touch and lift; touch and lift. Count them in your head: one through ten."

Javier dipped his chin.

Miguel tapped the right glove. "If he reaches on the parry, send the right straight; no swing. Bring it back to your cheek fast and do not chase off balance. If he shells, step around and make him reset. Eyes on his shoulders, not his hands. Breathe on the exhale when you punch; keep your stance square after the jab; bring your hands home quick."

"I finish him." The words came quiet and steady.

Miguel’s nod was small. "You finish him after you win the ring."

Vicente settled at Javier’s flank, his tone like a hand on the back. "You are not a story he tells. You are the work at six in the morning; you are the road; you are every round you held when it hurt. Dignity first, then damage. Touch him, move him, make him doubt. When he talks smoke, remember the air is yours in Brooklyn."

Javier’s shoulders eased. "I hear you."

"Good. Make him hear you without words."

The walk to the ring felt different from earlier bouts. The midweek crowd ran smaller and tighter. Families wore hoodies; kids ate pizza on paper plates; old-timers in gym jackets from Borough Park and Sunset Park watched the apron. Noise rose as they reached it.

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead and cut hard lines across the canvas. There were no showlights or walkout songs. It was pure amateur boxing.

The announcer lifted a hand. "In the red corner, representing Gleason’s Gym, fighting out of Brooklyn, New York... Javier Restrepo!"

Applause scattered through the room and a couple of voices called his name. Miguel’s hand landed on his shoulder, a single firm pat.

The next line rolled out. "In the blue corner, representing Atlas Cops & Kids Boxing Club, fighting out of Brooklyn... Chris Martinez!"

His section answered with louder cheers and a whistle. Chris raised his gloves and nodded toward them.

The referee beckoned to centre ring. He was in his mid thirties with grey hair and eyes that had seen every trick a hundred times.

Instructions came crisp. "This is a three-round amateur contest. Protect yourselves at all times. Obey my commands immediately. No holding and hitting, and nothing to the back of the head. Keep it clean and give me a good, sporting contest."

Gloves hovered in and touched with a firm tap from Chris, his eyes locked on Javier’s face.

A whisper slipped through. "Good luck, orphan."

The referee stepped back. "Fighters ready?"

Two nods.

"Box!"

The bell rang, sharp and clear.

Javier stepped to centre with purpose, his feet in the rhythm Miguel had drilled. Chris floated forward with a light bounce and loose shoulders.

Mission Objective 1 started now: ten clean jabs in Round 1.

The first jab touched the chest, a clean test of range and timing. Leather met the chest protector with a sound the judges could read. One down; nine to go.

Chris reached for the second jab, his left hand crossing his body to parry. The signature counter began to form exactly as the window had shown.

The reach opened his right shoulder and left a lane over the top.

Javier stepped off his lead foot and sent a straight right over the parry.

The cross landed flush on the headgear. Chris’s head snapped back and he stumbled toward the ropes, his legs unsteady for the first time all night.

The crowd jumped in volume. Surprise widened his eyes behind the foam and scrubbed away the earlier confidence.

Javier followed to the ropes with his hands up and ready. The mission had only just begun.