Chapter 2: Jake

In a filthy, cluttered room, clothes are piled high, peppered with empty pizza boxes and half-crushed soda cans. The constant roar of traffic and the barking of distant dogs seep through a cracked, broken window.

On the dusty dresser sits a framed portrait of a happy family of three:

A smiling boy sits front and center, perched comfortably on a woman's lap, his light blonde hair contrasting his dark hazel eyes. Behind him, the woman gazes down at the child, her emerald eyes shining with a tender smile. Beside them, with his arms draped around them both, stands a young man with messy brown hair, hazel eyes just like the boy's, and a grin that outshines them all.

A teenage boy with a blonde buzzcut rolls out of bed, landing with a thud onto a pile of trash before tumbling onto a heap of dirty clothes. Groggy and half-awake, he stumbles to his feet. He slaps himself on the cheeks a few times to wake up.

He lets out a sharp breath, then springs up to the pull-up bar above the door. He spins himself upside down and locks his feet on the bar, curling his body upward in steady rhythm—each crunch shaking off the last remnants of sleep.

His arms and face are covered in bruises and cuts. Mid-rep, his phone suddenly buzzes. Still hanging upside down, he fishes it from his pocket and answers.

"Hello." He answers.

"Jake, c'mon, man, I'm outside, my dad is going to kill us if we're late again."

"Oh shi—" thunk! He slips off the bar and scrambles to his feet, rushing to get ready.

He quickly throws on a grey hoodie and slips into his shoes, then bolts out of his dirty room, knocking over towers of dirty clothes. He runs into the living room, kicking trash over with each step of his torn-up black and white skate shoes.

As he passes the living room, he stops and quietly continues towards the front door.

In the other room, a blonde woman in tattered clothes lies sprawled on the couch. Next to her lies a pipe accompanied by a small pile of crushed rock.

He looks over to make sure she's asleep, then carefully opens the door. A loud, slurred voice cuts through the silence. "Wheeeere the hellll doo you think you're gooing?"

He stops in his tracks.

"Mom, I…"

His eyes flicker toward her, but she's already slipped back into sleep. Quietly, he eases the door open he whispers, "bye, ma." A heavy sadness clouds his eyes as he takes one last look before closing the door quietly behind him.

"Yo, Jake!"

A Black teenager leans casually against the stair railing at the bottom of the apartment stairs, hands buried in his pockets and a gym bag resting by his side.

"What's up with you? You look down."

Jake responds, "It's nothing, I just fell out of bed. Not the best way to start to the day."

"Happens to the best of us, well, let's go. My dad is probably already pissed. So… last one there is paying for lunch?"

Jake stares at his friend and smirks, "You're on!"

They sprint as fast as they can, racing each other down the cracked sidewalk. Old broken-down apartment buildings hover over them. A faded street sign flashes by: "Hull Ave and E 209 St."

After running more than a mile, they finally arrive. Towering before them is a colossal brick building, its walls a canvas of graffiti and vibrant murals. Above the rusted metal doors hangs an enormous, battered sign: "M & M's Boxing Gym." Letters in the word "Boxing" had long since fallen away or hung loose, swaying above the doors.

Gasping for air, they burst through the doors, playfully shoving one another on the way in.

"Another win for the books." Jake says proudly.

"It was clearly a tie, plus you tripped me up about a block down the road." His friend pleads his case.

"Here we go again… man my shoe was untied, I didn't eat breakfast this morning, I have a rash…"

"Hey, the last one was true!" His friend interrupts him.

"Hold up."

Jake brings them to a stop, indicating the door beneath the "Manager's Office" sign.

Quietly, they edge past the office, and head for the locker room.

"I thought we agreed on 9 o'clock sharp?" A deep voice booms behind them. They freeze as a towering Black man looms behind them, arms folded firmly across his massive chest.

Their bodies jolt and they turn stiffly to face the figure behind them, heads tilting upward like they're staring up at a mountain.

"I expected this from Jake, but not you, JJ." The man says disappointed.

"Dad I…"

"No excuses, now go get ready. You guys are going to work extra hard to make up for my wasted time." He cuts off his son.

The boys dart toward the locker room, nudging each other to see who will get there first.

The man, shaking his head, shifts his eyes upward to the grand image looming above the boxing ring:

In the ring stands a younger him, with his arm draped over the neck of the very same man from the photo on Jake's dresser.

He smirks, eyes fixed on the photo. "Reminds me of us when we were kids," he says quietly, speaking to a memory long gone.

"You left a real troublemaker in my hands, Mark." He sighs and then walks away.

The boys step out of the locker room, clad only in shorts and boxing shoes, their hands wrapped tightly in tape. Each grips a pair of gloves at their sides.

The boys take their places at the speed bags and start warming up.

The man looks down at Jake's arms and asks, "Where did you get all those bruises? Sure, as hell wasn't in here."

The speed bag bounces back and forth under Jake's rapid punches, "I fell riding my bike home from school, it's no big deal."

The man observes JJ, whose face is clouded with guilt.

He scoffs. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but you know how close me and your pops were. I just want to make sure you are safe. Plus, I sure as hell don't want JJ involved in any of your "biking accidents." 

"I'm fine, Marcus. Can we just focus on training?" Jake mutters irritably.

"Fine by me." Marcus responds with a sigh.

Jake walks over to the heavy bag and unleashes a powerful combo of punches. Marcus watches intently, analyzing his form.

"Elbows tighter. Drive through with your hips."

Hours pass, and the clock reads 2 p.m. Both boys lie on the sweat-soaked floor, spent, their chests rising and falling with heavy breaths.

"Alright, maybe next time you guys won't show up 30 minutes late. We're done for the day. Go get cleaned up and grab some food." He called out, voice rough from the long day.

The boys freshen up in the locker room before making their way out the gym, where Marcus intercepts them.

"JJ, head home I'm pretty sure you still haven't shown me your homework. I'll be there before it gets dark and I expect it to be done."

"I'm not a kid. You don't have to tell me what to do all the time, I know." JJ whines.

Marcus fixes him with a hard stare, the kind that doesn't invite backtalk.

"Ugh… Yes, sir." he mutters, defeated.

"Good, I'll see you tonight."

He pauses before heading back into his office, "Jake you're always welcome to come for dinner if you want, door's always open."

"I'm good, Marcus, thanks. I've actually got a few things to take care of tonight." Jake adjusts the strap on his gym bag and avoids Marcus's eyes.

"Alright then." Marcus waves them off and walks into his office and shuts the door behind him.

They stagger out of the gym like wounded soldiers, muscles burning and bodies aching for relief with each limp.

"Man, Jake, you're really lucky sometimes. I wish I didn't have to have my dad barking orders at me 24/7."

Jake looks down at the cracked pavement, "You shouldn't take it for granted, man. I mean, I'd kill to have my dad back home."

"My bad, man, I didn't mean it like that." JJ apologizes.

"It's all good, just don't give your old man such a hard time. It's coming from a good place."

JJ exhales deeply, "Whatever you say, man. Alright, well, I'm headed home. You sure you don't wanna come over? Mom's making that chicken that you're always raving about."

"Nah, man, I got to do some stuff. I'll catch up with you tomorrow." Jake replies reluctantly.

JJ shoots Jake a skeptical glance and pauses before speaking. "…Alright, man, just stay safe. I'll catch you tomorrow." He throws up a peace sign, then crosses the street.

Jake looks toward his house, hesitating for a moment before deliberately heading in the opposite direction.

He finally arrives at a grimy alley strewn with dumpsters and trash bags. He pinches his nostrils to block out the stench.

As he walks down the alley, he reaches a loading dock beside a weathered warehouse. He approaches the massive metal sliding door hanging above him and slams his fist against it repeatedly.

After pounding the door several times, it finally slides up, and a young man with long hair stands above him.

"Jake! My brotha, you made it. Come in."

Jake hops up on the platform and enters the warehouse.

The heavy scent of marijuana hangs in the air. Five men occupy the vast, dimly lit space—some leaning against rusted metal beams, others clustered near a flickering TV, two locked in a game, and one sprawled out, passed out on a battered couch shoved against a graffiti-tagged concrete wall. The cracked and stained floor is littered with debris and old crates. Once a bustling warehouse, now the space is worn down from years of use and little upkeep.

The young man throws an arm around Jake's neck in a friendly gesture.

"You ready for today? We gotta initiate you into the gang somehow, and what's a better way than a fight with those trash Bulldogs." The man chuckles.

"What are you talking about? I thought we were good already. You said I proved myself already with the jewelry I snagged—that I wouldn't have to do this shit!" Jake snaps.

The man's friendly demeanor slips away as he pulls out a silver pistol and rests it against Jake's forehead.

"You think you're big shit already, huh? Is that it? Don't forget you're still a rook. I didn't have to take you in. Everything we've done so far was to feel you out, and so far you've done good, but don't think for a second you're one of us yet." The man says threateningly.

Sweat drips down Jake's forehead. "Tyler, that's my bad man—I'll do whatever I have to." He says desperately.

Tyler slides the gun back into his waistband and loses the serious tone. "Oh, c'mon, Jake, I was just messing around. But you will fight today, or you're done running with us. Got it?"

"Got it," Jake says, his voice shaky.

"Alright, boys, let's roll out!" Tyler shouts.

Three men pile into a decal-covered Subaru alongside Jake and Tyler. The driver pops the sliding door open with a handheld remote, and with a growl of the engine, the car tears out of the warehouse.

They cruise through the city for about ten minutes before turning into an alleyway.

At the center of the alley sit two cars with bold racing stripes, engines idling like they've been waiting.

5 men lounge on the cars without a care, but as the Subaru nears, their expressions sharpen—like a long-anticipated event is finally here.

The car stops, and everyone piles out. Tyler calls out to one of the men resting on one of the cars.

"You got yours?" He shouts.

The man nods. Two of the others head to the back door of one of the cars and pull it open, revealing another young man—no older than Jake—who steps out.

One of the men says to the teenager, "Don't disappoint us. Just do what we talked about, and you'll finally be earn your spot."

Tyler turns to Jake in the car. "Okay, Jake, here's your time to shine. Kick that kid's ass, and we'll be on our way. And you won't have to put up with any shit like this anymore. I promise."

After a quick nod, Jake steps out of the vehicle and heads toward the ring formed by the parked cars.

"Now we have ourselves a fight!" Tyler shouts.

Cash circulates through the group while Jake and his opponent size each other up.

Towering above Jake, the other teen's broad shoulders make him look twice as big.

They've got to be joking. This guy has at least 50 pounds on me, Jake tells himself.

"Fight!" Tyler yells, and the small crowd erupts.

Both Jake and his opponent raise their fists to their cheeks.

The teen without delay goes for a heavy swing to Jake's head. Jake slips under it and returns with a light jab to his jaw.

Jake dodges another swing from the left this time.

I can do this. He's slow. Just do what you and Marcus practiced.

Jake fakes a left jab, then throws a right hook to his opponent's temple. 

I got this. Any moment now, he'll be out.

Dropping his defenses, Jake's opponent rushes forward and charges Jake like a bull. Unable to escape the rush, Jake gets caught in a bear hug, hoisted into the air, then slammed hard onto the asphalt.

The force of the impact leaves Jake gasping for air. His opponent pins him down, raining blows onto his head. Jake raises his arms to block, but the strikes keep landing. Eventually, Jake unwillingly lowers his guard, surrendering to the barrage of punches, letting them land unable to resist.

Tyler storms over and drives a kick into the teenager's back.

"Oi! You big dumb troll!" he snaps.

"This is supposed to be a fight not a fucking murder. You Bulldogs think just because we met on your turf you get to make the rules." His voice cracking with rage.

"If you want to act like wild animals?" he shouts, voice cracking.

"Then I'll treat you like wild animals!"

Jake, barely conscious, struggles to grasp Tyler's words, his mind heavy and clouded. His vision swims, details fading into a blur. Somewhere in the haze, a flash of metal glints, inching closer and closer to him. Then an ear-splitting crack broke through the fog…