I make my way home in a daze, my body aching with every step. The weight of the gloves still lingers on my hands, my muscles sore from the relentless training. I keep replaying everything Chiron said in my head, the way his eyes locked onto mine with that unnerving certainty, like he knew what I was capable of before I did. There's a shift in me, something I can’t quite put my finger on yet. But one thing’s for sure—I’m not the same as when I walked into that warehouse tonight.

When I get inside the house, everything feels quieter than usual. The faint hum of the fridge, the soft ticking of the clock on the wall—nothing’s changed, but I feel like I’m in a different world.

I don’t bother turning on the lights. The darkness gives me the space to focus, to move without being watched. Without anyone questioning me.

I find my old punching bag in the corner of the basement, buried under a pile of junk. It’s nothing special—worn-out, a little deflated—but it’s all I need. I grab it, set it up, and stand there for a minute, just staring at it. I can feel the sweat on my skin, the bruises starting to form on my arms, but I don’t care. This feels right.

I’ve never trained like this before. Never pushed myself. But tonight... tonight something’s different. Something clicks inside me, and I know this is what I need. This is how I take control.

I slide my gloves back on, tighten them, and get into position. The stance Chiron showed me is fresh in my mind—feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, guard up, left hand out. I close my eyes for a moment, focusing on my breathing, just like Chiron told me. Then, without hesitation, I throw my first punch.

It lands. The impact vibrates through my arms, and I feel something in me shift. It’s not perfect—not even close—but it feels like progress. I take another breath, then throw another punch, this time with more force. I feel the weight behind it, the sting in my knuckles. I’m moving faster now, more focused. Each punch feels like a small victory.

I lose track of time. The rhythmic sound of my gloves hitting the bag becomes a steady beat, like a pulse that matches the thrum of my heart. I push harder, faster, letting the anger, the frustration, and all the doubts fuel me. I’m not holding back anymore. Not like I used to.

But then I hear a voice.

“Lachlan.”

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. My dad. I hadn’t even heard him come downstairs.

I turn slowly, wiping the sweat from my brow. He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and anger. His arms are crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed. I can tell he’s pissed, and I don’t need to hear him speak to know what’s coming.

“What the hell is this?” His voice is low, tight, like he’s struggling to keep himself in check. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I glance at the bag, at the gloves, then back at him. The disappointment in his eyes hits me like a punch to the gut. I don’t know why, but it stings worse than anything Chiron’s thrown at me tonight.

“I’m training,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady.

“Training?” His voice rises. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re just a kid, Lachlan. What the hell do you think you’re doing down here—punching things like some street thug? You think this is going to solve your problems?”

I open my mouth, ready to fire back, but something in the way he’s looking at me stops me. It’s not just anger—it’s fear. Fear and disappointment. He’s scared of what I’m becoming. I can see it in the way his eyes flicker between the bag and me, like he’s seeing something he doesn’t understand. Something he doesn’t want to understand.

“You don’t get it, Dad,” I say, my words coming out sharper than I intend. “I’m not like you. I can’t just sit around and pretend everything’s fine. I need to do something. I need to fight back.”

“Fight back?” He takes a step forward, his face twisted with frustration. “You’re a kid, Lachlan. You don’t need to be fighting. You need to focus on your future, not... not this.”

I stand there for a moment, feeling like I’m caught between two worlds. I’ve never really had a relationship with my dad that’s built on understanding. He’s always been the type to tell me what to do, what’s right, what’s wrong—never really asking me what I wanted. Never really seeing me for who I am.

“You think this is just a phase, don’t you?” I mutter, more to myself than to him. “You think I’ll just stop.”

“Damn right, I do,” he spits, his voice thick with frustration. “Because this isn’t who you are, Lachlan. You’re not some... fighter. You don’t need this. You need to focus on your life. Your future. You think this is going to fix anything?”

I shake my head, the frustration boiling inside me. “I’m not like you,” I snap. “I don’t have everything figured out, okay? But I can’t just sit here like you do and wait for things to get better.”

I see him wince, like I’ve struck him. I don’t care. Maybe I should, but I don’t.

“Stop it, Lachlan,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “You’re not this... this person. You’re better than this. Please. You don’t have to throw your life away over some stupid idea of what you think you need.”

I stare at him for a long moment, the anger simmering beneath the surface. He’s just scared. He’s scared that I’ll end up like him, a man stuck in a rut, never moving forward. But that’s not my future. I’m not going to let it be.

“I’m not throwing my life away,” I say, my voice steady, even though it feels like my insides are torn in two. “I’m taking control of it. I’m not just going to sit around and wait anymore.”

I turn back to the punching bag, my fists clenched. I know my dad’s standing there, watching me, but I don’t look at him. I can’t. I need this. I need to keep going.

But when I throw my next punch, I can feel his disappointment pressing on me, and the sting of it makes the punch feel weaker than it should.

I throw another punch at the bag, trying to block out the frustration building in my chest, but it’s impossible. I can feel my dad’s gaze burning into the back of my neck. He hasn’t said a word yet, but I know he’s standing there, watching me. I hate that feeling. Like I’m under a microscope.

I throw another punch, harder this time, the weight of the gloves dragging me down, the muscles in my arms screaming from the exertion. I’m just trying to get it out of my system. But when I hear him speak, my heart skips in my chest.

“Lachlan.”

I freeze, my breath catching. Slowly, I turn, my hands still raised. My dad is standing in the doorway, his face pinched in disappointment, his arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice is low, but it cuts through the air like a knife. “This is how you’re spending your time? Hitting a damn punching bag in the basement?”

I don’t answer right away. I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure how to explain that this—this feeling of frustration—is the only way I know how to deal with everything.

“You think this is gonna fix things?” he presses, stepping forward, his voice rising now. “You think beating the shit out of something is gonna make your life better?”

I swallow hard, my fists tightening, but I don’t lower them. “It’s not about fixing things. It’s about... about feeling something.”

“Feeling something?” he repeats, his voice dripping with disbelief. “Lachlan, this is just a phase. A stupid one. What the hell happened to you? This isn’t who you are.”

It hits me like a punch to the gut, the way he says it—this isn’t who you are. The words sting because I know exactly what he means. I’ve never been the perfect kid. I’ve never been the one who had it all figured out like Lance. I can feel my dad’s disappointment radiating off him, and it makes me feel like I’m just not enough.

I’ve always known that Lance was the one my dad was proud of—the one who never got in trouble, the one who excelled at everything. Lance was the golden child. And I, well... I was just me. The screw-up. The disappointment.

“He’s got it all, doesn’t he?” I mutter under my breath, not even thinking about it. But my dad hears it.

“Don’t bring your brother into this,” he snaps, his voice sharp. “Lance has worked his ass off to get where he is. He didn’t waste his time on stupid things, on pointless distractions. He’s got a future. You? You’re wasting your potential.”

My jaw clenches. “I’m not wasting anything. I’m just—"

“Just what?” he interrupts. “Trying to live up to the image of your brother? Trying to act tough like you’ve got something to prove? Lance is successful. He’s got a career, he’s got everything going for him, and here you are—wasting your time with this nonsense.”

The words hit harder than anything I could throw at the bag. I try to keep it together, but my chest tightens, the words sticking to my throat. I know my dad doesn’t get it. He never has.

“You don’t understand,” I say, my voice tight. “I’m not Lance. I can’t be him.”

He looks at me like I’ve just told him the sky is green. “I don’t expect you to be Lance. I just want you to try. Try harder. Try like he did. He didn’t get handed anything—he earned it.”

I bite back the urge to scream, the anger bubbling up from deep inside me. “So that’s it, then? I’m just supposed to be like him? I don’t get to be my own person? Because I’m not like him, I’m nothing?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my dad snaps. “I’m not saying you should be exactly like Lance. But you could be more like him. You’ve got potential, Lachlan. You’re smart. You’re capable. But instead of doing something with that, you’re down here, pretending like punching things is going to make you feel better.”

I stand there for a moment, staring at him, the words weighing heavy on my chest. It’s like he doesn’t see me. He doesn’t see who I am or what I’m trying to do. He just sees the son who can’t live up to the perfect image of Lance.

“Why don’t you see me?” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “Why don’t you see that I’m trying?”

My dad’s face softens, but it’s not the comfort I’m looking for. It’s something worse, something colder. “I’m trying to get you to see, Lachlan. I’m trying to get you to see that you’re better than this. You have so much more potential than... this.”

The words stab through me, like they’re chipping away at whatever little confidence I had left. I can feel myself shrinking under his gaze. He’s right. I don’t have it all figured out. I’m not successful. I’m not like Lance. I’m just... me. The disappointment.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” he adds, quieter now. “Stop wasting your life.”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I want to yell at him, tell him to stop comparing me to Lance, to stop making me feel like I’m not enough. But instead, I just lower my fists, the weight of them dragging me down. I stare at the ground, the silence between us thick and suffocating.

After a long moment, my dad finally sighs, his voice tinged with exhaustion. “I just want you to have a future, Lachlan. A real future. Not this... this mess you’re creating for yourself.”

And just like that, the weight of his disappointment crashes over me. I don’t know what’s worse—the anger or the sadness in his voice. He’s giving up on me. He’s already decided who I’m going to be.

“I’ll figure it out,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. But I’m not sure I believe it.

Without another word, my dad turns and walks out of the basement, leaving me alone with the punching bag, the echo of his disappointment lingering in the air. I stand there, frozen for a while, unable to move, the anger and frustration swirling inside me.

I can feel it—the pressure of trying to live up to the image of the son my dad wants me to be. But I don’t know how to be that person. All I know is that I’m not Lance. And that’s all anyone seems to care about.