I was still frozen mid-step, my breath slow, controlled—but my mind raced.
"You're a kind man, Reynard."
The words resounded in my mind, a warning chime growing louder with each second that ticked by.
I didn't mention my name.
I hadn't given any hints.
And still, this individual—this alleged homeless individual—recognized my identity.
I turned back to him, moving closer, my stance adjusting a bit. Ready.
Ready for a battle, should it come to that.
"You're familiar with me," I stated, my tone cautious and deliberate.
The man did not react. He just smiled—a tiny, aware expression. "Certainly."
His casual response sent a wave of unease rolling down my spine.
I took another step forward.
The street lamp blinked overhead. A vehicle drove by in the distance, its headlights creating elongated shadows on the brick wall.
The man—no, the unfamiliar individual—gradually lifted himself from the earth. His actions were rigid yet consistent, resembling a person whose physique had suffered greatly but still would not succumb.
"Take it easy, kid," he remarked, brushing himself off. "I'm here for you."
Since if the worst-case scenario was true—if this individual had figured out my identity and intended to sell it to the highest bidder—then I couldn't allow him to leave.
If he tried to run, I'd have to stop him.
I could already see my options forming in my head.
Chase him down. Subdue him. Call Anthony.
My instincts were screaming at me. Be ready.
But the man didn't run.
It was a deep, genuine sound, like I'd just told a ridiculous joke. "Damn, kid. You really think I'd drop your name just to blackmail you?"
"Relax." He shook his head, smirking. "The name's Sergeant Milan. I used to work for the government, back when they still had their heads screwed on straight."
My shoulders stiffened. "Government?"
"Yeah. Defense instructor. Combat specialist. Taught some of the best soldiers in the field." He stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders with a tired groan. "Then they booted me the moment I started supporting the Masked Syndicate. Turns out, having a conscience makes you an inconvenience."
I narrowed my eyes. That... was a big claim.
"You expect me to believe that?" I asked.
Milan gave me a look. "You can call Anthony if you want. See what he has to say about me."
I frowned. "You know him?"
Milan grinned. "Know him? I trained that idiot."
Anthony was good. Scary good. If this guy was the one who trained him—
Maybe... he was telling the truth.
I exhaled, letting some of the tension leave my body. Just a little.
"Alright," I muttered. "But don't joke around like that. Dropping my name out of nowhere isn't exactly comforting."
Milan chuckled. "Get used to it. You've made a name for yourself, kid. This won't be the last time it happens."
I ran a hand through my hair, processing everything.
Then, a thought struck me.
He was an instructor.
And I needed a trainer.
"...Can you teach me boxing?"
Milan's smile didn't fade, but he didn't answer right away. Instead, he studied me, his cracked glasses catching the dim light.
"You got a burner phone?"
I reached into my pocket and pulled it out.
Milan took it, his fingers moving over the keypad as he entered his number. But then he paused.
He stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary.
Milan chuckled, shaking his head. "Man, I swear. That guy always finds the weirdest people to work with."
He handed the phone back.
Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and started walking.
I watched him go, still trying to wrap my head around what just happened.
Just before he disappeared down the street, he raised a hand in a lazy wave. "Appreciate the hundred bucks, by the way. See you tomorrow, kid."
The next morning, I woke up to a text.
Unknown Number: Meet me here. 11 AM.
Attached was a random address.
I stared at the message for a moment before sitting up.
So he really was serious.
I threw on some clothes, grabbed my mask, and left.
The directions took me to an aged warehouse on the town's edge, its surface corroded and battered by time. The metal doors had minor dents, and some windows were shattered, letting sunlight enter in fragmented rays.
I made a face as I got closer.
Why on earth were we gathering here?
I walked through the doorway, the sturdy door groaning as it opened up.
Milan had already entered.
He positioned himself close to the middle of the warehouse, rotating his shoulders, assessing his range of motion. His jacket had disappeared, exposing a faded tank top, and although his appearance was rough and unpolished, his physique was sturdy—the result of years of training.
"You're late," he said, not looking up.
I checked my phone. "It's 10:58."
"Exactly. Two minutes to warm up. You lost those."
I sighed, stepping further inside. "So, what is this place?"
Milan smirked. "Home sweet home."
I frowned. "You live here?"
"Wouldn't call it 'living.' More like... squatting with extra steps." He shrugged. "Not like I got funding for a real gym. Turns out, being blacklisted by the government makes it real hard to open a business."
I nodded slowly, taking in the surroundings.
The floor was scuffed and stained, but there were makeshift training areas scattered throughout—heavy bags hanging from exposed beams, a few old mats, even a couple of sandbags stacked into a crude training dummy.
It wasn't a real gym.
But it was something.
Milan rolled his neck, cracking a few joints. Then, he turned to me, his smirk widening.
"So, you're running into a problem, huh?"
I raised an eyebrow. "What problem?"
He pointed a finger at me. "No skills, right?"
Milan chuckled. "Figured as much. Kid, I've been training fighters for years. I can tell when someone knows how to throw a punch but doesn't understand what they're doing."
No matter how much I moved, how much I punched—there was no form.
Milan's eyes gleamed. "Well, lucky for you..." He cracked his knuckles. "That's about to change."