Training Before Sunrise
835 Words
The world felt different at 4 a.m.
Alex had never seen the city like this—silent, breathless, like it was holding a secret. The streets were empty, the sky still clinging to darkness, and every sound felt louder than it should be. Even his footsteps.
He arrived at the alley with a paper bag in one hand—just in case the old man changed his mind about pizza.
He didn’t.
Instead, the old man was already there—waiting. Squatting barefoot on the cold pavement, eyes closed, as if meditating in the filth of the world.
“You’re late,” he said, not opening his eyes.
Alex checked his watch. “It’s 3:58.”
The old man opened one eye. “Exactly. You’re already two minutes too slow.”
Alex smirked, but the old man didn’t return it.
“What do I call you?” Alex asked.
“Don’t,” the man said. “Names are for people who still believe they’ll be remembered.”
A long silence.
Then the man stood up in one fluid motion—no cracking bones, no grunt of effort. Just silence.
He pointed to the ground. “Sit.”
Alex hesitated.
“First lesson,” the old man said, “is learning how to sit without looking weak.”
Alex sat.
And began the first of many mornings that would strip away everything he thought he was.
Sweat Before Steel
The old man didn’t teach with words.
He taught with bruises.
For the first hour, Alex was told to sit. Then to breathe. Then to sit again—but this time on one leg. Then to fall, to get up, to fall again, over and over, until the gravel dug into his skin like glass.
No explanation. No encouragement.
Only silence... and pain.
“You fight your body first,” the old man said finally, as Alex gasped for breath. “If you can’t master pain, you’ll die before your enemy touches you.”
Alex didn’t reply. He was too busy vomiting behind a trash bin.
“You think violence is about strength?” the old man added. “Violence is about control. Of your breath. Of your eyes. Of your hands. If even one of them panics, you’ve already lost.”
By the second hour, Alex’s shirt was soaked, his arms numb, and his thoughts loud with self-hate.
He wanted to quit. Every second screamed for him to stop.
But something else whispered louder.
A memory.
The man’s eyes.
Empty. Cold. Victorious.
Alex clenched his fists.
And chose to keep going.
No Way Back
By the third day, Alex’s body screamed with every movement.
His legs throbbed. His arms refused to lift. Even his eyelids felt heavy, like the city itself was sitting on his shoulders.
He thought about quitting.
He could just walk away. Forget the alley. Forget the old man. Go back to smiling, to serving hot pizza and pretending the world was kind. He could just be “Nice Guy” again.
But the memories wouldn’t let him.
The blood. The silence. The killer’s eyes.
And something worse—something deeper than fear.
Shame.
He saw his reflection in the pizzeria oven door that evening—eyes hollow, face bruised, hands shaking. He barely recognized himself.
“Why are you doing this?” he whispered to his own reflection.
The answer came not as a thought—but a feeling.
Because I’m not afraid anymore.
Because I need to be someone… who can stop monsters.
That night, as the city slept, Alex stood in front of the mirror, wrapped his bruised fists in cheap tape, and whispered two words to himself.
“No mercy.”
The First Cut
“You’re not ready for a blade,” the old man said.
Alex stood, arms aching, breath short, eyes narrowed with determination.
“I want to learn.”
The old man ignored his words. Instead, he tossed something onto the ground — a wooden stick, dull and splintered at the edges. “Start with this. If you can’t kill with a stick, you can’t kill with steel.”
Alex picked it up. It felt light. Useless.
“Hit me,” the old man said.
“What?”
“Hit me.”
Alex hesitated.
The old man didn’t.
In a blink, Alex was on the ground, ribs stinging. He coughed and tasted blood.
“Second lesson,” the old man growled, “Never hesitate.”
Alex got up slowly. His grip tightened on the stick. He swung — too high. Blocked. Thrown again.
“Sloppy,” the old man muttered.
Again.
And again.
And again.
By the twentieth fall, Alex could no longer feel his knees.
But something had changed.
He wasn’t swinging with fear anymore.
He was swinging with focus.
The old man, for the first time, nodded.
“You’re not fast. You’re not strong. But you’re angry. That’s something.”
Alex didn’t smile.
He simply stood.
And raised the stick one more time.
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- Writer
