The sunlight spilled into Rey's bedroom in bold, golden beams, painting warm stripes across the floorboards and the rumpled bedsheets. It was the kind of light that made the air itself feel awake. Somewhere outside, a garbage truck rattled down the street, followed by the cheerful sing-song of a street vendor selling breakfast sandwiches.
Rey sat up slowly, arms stretching high above his head until his shoulders popped. He ran a hand through his hair, still messy from sleep, and let out a long, content exhale. Whatever weight had clung to him yesterday was gone, like the night had taken it away when it left. Today was clean. Fresh.
He dressed quickly — white T-shirt, dark jeans, sneakers — and slung his backpack over one shoulder. The Bronx morning greeted him with life at every corner.
The sidewalk buzzed with movement: kids in school uniforms darting between adults, mothers tugging at their children's hands, a cyclist weaving through traffic like he was in a race. The smell of fresh bagels and strong coffee wafted from the corner bodega, mixing with the faint scent of rain still clinging to the air from last night.
"Morning, Rey!" The old man at the Jefferson Street newsstand waved from behind his pile of papers, his Yankees cap pulled low.
"Morning, Mr. Alvarez," Rey replied, smiling as he passed.
Halfway to school, a group of little kids huddled around a cracked hopscotch court spotted him. One of them pointed and shouted, "Iron Fist!" The others broke into grins and started chanting his nickname, their voices high and delighted. Rey laughed, giving them a quick wave before continuing.
The school gates loomed ahead, already a hive of activity. Clusters of students hung around in tight circles, trading homework answers, showing each other videos on their phones, or simply leaning against the fence and talking about nothing in particular.
Michael stood among them, tall and easygoing as ever, a grin lighting his face when he spotted Rey. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, "There he is! The champ!"
Rey rolled his eyes but couldn't stop a grin from tugging at the corner of his lips. "Don't start, Mike."
"Too late," Michael said, moving forward to clap him on the shoulder. "Whole school's been talking about your fight. You're officially a celebrity now."
Carlos, who had been leaning against the fence, pushed himself off with a lazy grin. "Even Mrs. Jackson asked me if I knew you. I told her I taught you everything you know."
Rey snorted. "Yeah, right."
"Hey, don't ruin it," Carlos said, feigning offense. "I was building my brand."
The three of them moved through the hallway together, walking in that unhurried, confident way that made other students glance at them — not because they were trying to show off, but because that's just how they carried themselves.
---
First period came with a small surprise.
Mr. Clark, their usually no-nonsense homeroom teacher, paused at Rey's desk as the class was settling in. He leaned one hand on the table, his other tucked in the pocket of his vest.
"Mr. Chen," he began with a faint smile that almost looked out of place on his face, "I hear you've been making quite the impression outside these walls."
Rey raised an eyebrow, half-expecting a scolding. "Sir?"
"I've seen the videos. Impressive." Clark straightened. "Keep it in the ring, though."
Laughter rippled softly through the class. Rey nodded respectfully. "Yes, sir."
---
By mid-morning, the day had slipped into its familiar rhythm — switching classrooms, the clatter of books in lockers, the quiet buzz of whispered side conversations in the back rows. In history class, Carlos spent more time doodling in the margins of his notes than actually writing, and in math, Michael somehow convinced Rey to help him solve a problem seconds before the teacher called on him.
When the lunch bell rang, the hallways came alive again. Rey's group claimed their usual table near the cafeteria window. The chatter was fast and overlapping — Carlos complaining about a pop quiz, Michael bragging about sinking a lucky three-pointer in PE, and Rey laughing as he flicked a balled-up napkin at Carlos's head.
"Hey," Michael said suddenly, pointing at Rey with his fork, "you've gotta teach me that move you did in round one. That little… slip and counter thing. Man, that was cold."
"You'd break your jaw trying that," Rey said, smirking.
Carlos tossed a juice box toward him. Rey caught it with a smooth snap of his hand without even glancing.
"Show-off," Carlos muttered, though he was grinning.
The easy banter carried them through lunch. A few students from other tables stopped by to congratulate Rey or ask about the fight. Each time, Rey smiled politely and thanked them, but he never let it turn into a big scene. He didn't need to — his presence did enough talking for him.
---
The rest of the school day passed in that same easy flow — no fights, no tension, just the usual bustle of student life.
When the final bell rang, the sun was still high enough to stretch long golden rays across the sidewalk. Rey stepped outside with Michael and Carlos, their laughter spilling into the street as they debated whether to grab pizza or head to the basketball court first.
It felt like one of those days that could go on forever.