One week passed.
Jason couldn't shake the worry sitting in his chest. He kept replaying yesterday in his head—Jake's scars, the silence in his eyes, the way he smiled while hiding pain.
He knew one thing for sure:
He can't protect his little brother forever.
So he called Jake to the gym.
Jake arrived, a little confused. "Why you called me here so suddenly?"
Jason crossed his arms, studying Jake's face, the faint scratches on his cheek. "To teach you something crucial about life."
Jake blinked. "What?"
Jason pointed at the scars. "How did you get those? And don't lie."
Jake looked away quickly. "I… fell off the stairs."
Jason stared straight into Jake's eyes—cold, sharp, unblinking.
Jake flinched.
Jason sighed. "Don't worry. I'm not forcing you. If you don't want to tell, don't. But I can't see someone hurting you when I'm not around.
So from today, I'll train you. At least enough to defend yourself."
Jake gave a small smile. "Don't worry, not all people are bad."
Jason shook his head slowly. "Let me ask you something. What do you think happens if all the good people disappear from this world?"
Jake thought for a second. "Well… then everywhere will be darkness and war, right?"
Jason replied, "No. What will happen is— the most dangerous, cunning, powerful bad people will start crushing the smaller bad people.
The weak ones will start a revolution because they think what's happening to them is wrong. That's what's happening now. Good people died long ago. The ones left only pretend to be good so they can survive."
Jake exhaled. "You think very negative, you know?"
"Maybe," Jason said. "But it's the truth. They might not all be bad… but they're definitely weak.
And I don't want you ending up like them. Now get into your stance. With that posture, you won't even beat a rat."
Jake quickly adjusted himself.
For two hours Jason pushed him—footwork, balance, guard, straight punches.
Jake's sweat dripped to the floor, eyes burning but determined.
"That's enough for today," Jason said finally. "Tomorrow, we learn our family's secret technique."
Jake wiped his forehead. "Can I ask something?"
"What."
"How do you control your anger during a fight?" Jake asked softly.
Jason looked stunned for a moment.
"Control? I don't. Controlling anger is a bad thing. Don't trap it inside. Let it out. Scream, punch, break through—use your anger as a weapon.
But why you asking?"
Jake shrugged. "Nothing. Just curious."
Jason narrowed his eyes. "Hmm. If you say so."
Jake grabbed his bag. "I'm late for my job, so I'm leaving."
"Don't overdo it," Jason warned. "Your body needs rest too."
"Okay… bye!"
Jake ran off.
Jason wasn't satisfied. His instincts screamed something was wrong.
So he followed him again.
But halfway down the main street…
Jake vanished.
Like he disappeared into thin air.
Panic tightened Jason's chest.
Then he spotted a familiar face—
one of the bullies dragging another weak student by the collar.
Jason's jaw clenched. His eyes grew cold again.
"They better not have touched Jake…" he muttered.
He followed the bully.
Same place as last time—abandoned buildings, empty construction sites, broken walls.
The bullies marched the student to the rooftop, where their leader and others waited.
Jason scanned the area for Jake…
Nothing.
His worry grew.
But before he could move—
Click. Click. Clack.
Footsteps circled him.
From behind walls and shadows, dozens of men emerged holding metal rods, baseball bats, hockey sticks, thick wooden boards.
Jason realized:
He had walked into their trap.
A gravelly voice echoed.
"Well, well… look who we caught."
Trekker stepped out, smirking with half-burnt cigarette between his lips. "The ghost himself."
The bully leader laughed loudly, excited.
"Your last day, old man!"
Jason didn't react.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even look at them.
His expression was empty—calm as still water, dead as winter.
They yelled at him, insulted him, circled him…
Jason stood there like nothing existed.
Trekker's smile faded. "You playing tough, huh?"
Jason slowly shifted his footing.
His feet angled differently.
His shoulders lowered.
His hands rose just enough—
an unfamiliar stance. Unseen, sharp, balanced, dangerous.
The men around him hesitated.
Something about that posture felt wrong.
Like watching a predator stretch before the kill.
Trekker's eyes widened.
"Oh… my… Look who we have here."
He chuckled darkly. "The boxing prodigy. The uncrowned king of the ring."
He spat the cigarette.
"You're a Schiznor, right?"
The bullies froze.
Their faces drained of colour.
Who the hell was Jason?