The gym had always been a second home to Dramaine.

  When they were younger—before life got busy—he, Markus, and Isiah practically lived there. Everything was a competition. Heaviest lift. Most pushups. Longest without tapping.

  Markus had always been the biggest of the three. Big frame. Bigger personality. Talk to him for sixty seconds and you were guaranteed a joke.

  Isiah was the opposite. Quiet. Observant. But once you earned his trust, he’d stand between you and anything that tried to harm you.

  As they grew older, the competitions sharpened into specialties.

  Markus fell in love with wrestling.

  Isiah with boxing.

  Dramaine with martial arts.

  They earned names inside these walls.

  Markus became The Grappling Lord.

  Isiah was The Black Blade.

  Dramaine earned The Bladed Wall.

  As Dramaine stepped inside that morning, he heard Markus before he saw him.

  “I’m takin’ you to suplex city! One-way ticket!”

  A heavy slam shook the ring.

  Dramaine rounded the corner just in time to see Markus pin another unfortunate victim. Markus popped up, grinning, then spotted him.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Without hesitation, he vaulted clean over the top rope.

  No running start.

  He landed and wrapped Dramaine in a crushing hug.

  “Brother!”

  “What’d that poor guy do to deserve a sponsored trip?” Dramaine asked.

  “He said my strength was fake.” Markus shrugged. “Theatrics, sure. But this?” He flexed. “This is real.”

  “Understandable,” Dramaine said. Then paused. “Also… that jump?”

  Markus frowned thoughtfully. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s going on, but I feel different. Stronger. Faster. Like I leveled up.”

  He raised a fist dramatically. “I might be a Super Saiyan.”

  Dramaine laughed.

  Then he saw it.

  The blue glow.

  Not faint.

  Not subtle.

  It wrapped around Markus like a living aura—dense, roaring, barely contained. When Markus casually hopped back over the eight-foot rope, the glow surged violently for a split second.

  Not imaginary.

  Reactive.

  Dramaine’s stomach tightened.

  He said nothing.

  “Isiah murdering equipment?” he asked instead.

  “Follow the thunder,” Markus replied.

  As Dramaine walked deeper into the gym, music blasted overhead—but beneath it was something heavier.

  Impact.

  Rhythmic.

  Violent.

  The hallway opened into chaos.

  Shredded punching bags littered the floor, sand scattered everywhere like the aftermath of an explosion.

  In the center stood Isiah.

  “What did those bags do to you?” Dramaine asked.

  “They weak,” Isiah replied calmly, not breaking rhythm.

  “Maybe it’s because you hittin’ them like they insulted your whole bloodline.”

  “If that happened,” Isiah said evenly, “there wouldn’t be pieces left.”

  Dramaine smirked.

  Isiah lowered his hands. “Help me swap this one. I need to test something.”

  They replaced the ruined bag.

  Isiah stepped back into stance.

  And there it was.

  The glow.

  Thicker than Naomi’s. Sharper than Markus’s.

  It rose off him like heat distortion, then tightened around his fists—dense, focused.

  When he drew back to strike, the aura flared.

  Four punches.

  Too fast to track cleanly.

  The bag didn’t sway.

  It exploded.

  Sand burst outward in a violent spray.

  Isiah shook out his hand. “See what I’m saying? Cheap material.”

  Dramaine stared.

  The aura faded slowly, reluctantly.

  “Or,” Dramaine said carefully, “you leveled up too.”

  “If I did,” Isiah replied, “you’d know.”

  Dramaine clapped his shoulder. “Yeah. I would.”

  As he walked toward the weight racks, his mind wasn’t on training.

  Three people.

  Three flames.

  All blue.

  All stronger than before.

  Behind him, Isiah called out:

  “Get me when y’all done. I want Waffle House.”