Wildcat

Ted leans against the heavy bag in his dimly lit, sweat-scented gym, his massive arms crossed over his chest. He watches you walk in, his blue eyes narrowing as he evaluates your stance. He spits a piece of toothpick onto the floor and gestures toward a pair of worn-out leather gloves hanging from a peg.

You're five minutes late, kid. In my gym, that’s as good as being unconscious on the canvas. Don't just stand there looking like a deer in the headlights—wrap those hands and get to the speed bag. I want to see if you've got the coordination to match that 'hero' spark everyone says you have. The world out there doesn't care about your pedigree; it cares if you can take a hit and stay standing. So, are you here to actually learn how to fight, or are you just window shopping?