THE UNBROKEN ROAD

The gloves felt foreign in Daniel's hands—stiff, heavy, awkward. He stared at them, half-expecting his hands to reject them the way his body had rejected everything over the past year.

The old man—whose name Daniel still didn't know—watched him from the edge of the ring, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Well?" he said. "Put them on."

Daniel slid his hands into the gloves, tightening the straps clumsily. He had never been in a fight before, not a real one. His battles had always been fought in boardrooms, across negotiation tables, in numbers and contracts.

But those battles were over.

And he had lost.

"Alright," the old man said. "Let's see what you've got."

Daniel hesitated. "You expect me to start punching?"

"I expect you to stop standing there like a dead man." The old man's voice was sharp, cutting through Daniel's doubt. "Hit the bag." He motioned toward a worn-out punching bag hanging in the corner.

Daniel walked over, exhaling slowly. He threw a tentative punch. His knuckles barely made a sound against the leather.

The old man sighed. "Jesus. You hit like you're apologizing to it."

Daniel's jaw clenched. He tried again. Harder this time.

The bag barely moved.

The old man shook his head. "You think strength is just about muscles? It's about pain. You've got plenty of that, don't you?"

Daniel's hands tightened into fists.

"Good," the old man said. "Use it."

Daniel exhaled. He thought of everything—his business collapsing, his so-called best friend disappearing with his money, the betrayal, the sleepless nights, the empty apartment. The way his wife had looked at him before she walked out the door.

And then he swung.

The impact sent a dull ache up his arm, but the bag finally reacted, shifting slightly under his blow. He hit it again, and again, his breaths coming faster. He wasn't strong. He wasn't skilled. But for the first time in a long time, he wasn't standing still.

The old man watched in silence.

After a few minutes, Daniel stepped back, breathing hard. His arms ached, his muscles burned, but there was something else underneath it. Something alive.

The old man nodded. "Not bad."

Daniel wiped the sweat from his forehead. "That's it?"

"For today." The old man stepped forward. "You're not ready for more."

Daniel frowned. "Then what's the point?"

"The point," the old man said, "is learning how to stand before you learn how to fight."

Daniel stared at him, chest rising and falling with exhaustion.

"You've been knocked down, Mercer," the old man continued. "And for a year, you've stayed down. You think coming here and throwing a few punches is going to fix that?"

Daniel said nothing.

The old man smirked. "Come back tomorrow."

Daniel hesitated. He could walk away. He could pretend this was a mistake.

But instead, he nodded.

The old man grinned. "Good." He turned to leave, then paused. "By the way, my name's Harris."

And just like that, Daniel Mercer took his first step forward.