CHAPTER SEVEN: FOUNDATIONS

The gym wasn’t much to look at.

From the outside, it was just another aging building in Brockton Bay—worn brick, tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, its sign faded from years of salt air and neglect. The windows were fogged with condensation from the heat inside, and the faint rhythm of a speed bag echoed through the walls, punctuated by the occasional sharp crack of a glove hitting a heavy bag.

Taylor stood at the entrance, fingers twisting in the fabric of her t-shirt.

She had spent hours replaying her fight with Stormtiger, breaking down every moment, every mistake. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t touch her—she had barely been able to do anything in return. Her punches had been weak, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated. If she hadn’t been untouchable, she would’ve lost.

She swallowed.

This was stupid, wasn’t it? Just walking into a gym, thinking she could learn how to fight. People spent years training for this. But what other choice did she have? Keep relying on her power, hoping it would always be enough? Or put in the work to be better?

If she wanted to make a difference in this city, she had to be better.

Taylor squared her shoulders and pushed the door open.

Inside, the gym was thick with the scent of sweat and leather, alive with movement. Fighters worked the bags, some shadowboxing, others circling the ring at the center of the room, its ropes sagging slightly, worn from years of use. Near the back, a broad-shouldered man stood with his arms crossed, silently watching a pair of boxers spar.

No one paid her any mind.

Taylor exhaled and walked toward the front desk. The man behind it looked to be in his mid-forties, maybe older. Dark-skinned and equally broad-shouldered, his gray-flecked hair and weathered hands suggested he had once fought himself. He was wrapping a length of tape around his wrist, his movements slow and practised.

“You lost?” he asked, not bothering to look up.

Taylor hesitated.

“I… want to learn how to box.”

That made him pause. He glanced up, studying her.

“Depends,” he said, his voice rough but not unkind. “You serious about learning, or just looking to burn some energy?”

Taylor met his gaze. “I want to learn how to fight.”

Something shifted in his expression. He gave her another once-over.

“You got a name?”

“Taylor.”

For a second, his face was unreadable. Then he gave a short nod.

“Keith.” He finished wrapping his wrist, set the tape down, and extended a hand. She shook it—his grip was firm, the roughness of calluses still noticeable even through the tape.

“You ever trained before?”

She shook her head.

Keith sighed—not dismissive, more like he’d heard that answer a thousand times. “Alright. We start with the basics. Footwork, stance, how to throw a punch without breaking your damn hand.” His eyes flicked to her fingers. “Ever been in a fight?”

“A few,” she admitted.

His expression didn’t change. “You win?”

Taylor hesitated. “Not really.”

Keith huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “Honest answer. Good. Most people walk in here thinking they’re already hot shit. We’ll fix that.” He straightened. “You pay upfront. Thirty bucks for the first month.”

Thirty. More than she wanted to spend, but not unreasonable.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out a few folded bills, and slid them across the counter. Keith gave them a glance, then nodded.

He motioned for her to follow, standing. “Alright, Taylor. Grab a pair of wraps from the bin over there. First class starts in twenty.”

. . . . .

Taylor’s knuckles throbbed.

Her arms felt like lead, her shoulders burning from the repetitive drills. Even with the wraps, each punch sent a dull shock through her hands—a reminder of how untrained she was.

Keith was strict but patient, adjusting her stance when she planted her feet too wide, correcting her balance when she leaned too far forward. He had her throw slow punches, fixing the way she curled her fingers, making sure her wrists stayed aligned.

“Power comes from the legs,” he said, tapping his thigh. “Not your arms. Anyone can throw a punch. Not everyone can throw a good one.”

He made her redo movements until they stuck.

“Again.”

She reset her stance, throwing another jab.

“Faster.”

She struck the pad he held, pushing past the stiffness in her muscles.

“Better,” Keith grunted. “But you’re thinking too much. Loosen up.”

That was easier said than done. She had gotten used to relying on her force field, letting it handle defense without a second thought. The idea of needing to move, to react, felt almost unnatural.

But her power wouldn’t throw punches for her.

It had to be her.

By the time Keith called for a break, Taylor’s shirt was damp with sweat, her breath uneven, and her arms burned from holding them up for so long. But it was a good ache—the kind that came with progress, however small.

She grabbed a bottle of water, pressing it to her lips, letting the coolness soothe the heat in her face.

A voice called out to her.

“New girl, huh?”

She looked up.

A guy stood a few feet away, unwrapping his hands. He was tall—taller than her—with an athletic build, dark skin, and hair pulled back into cornrows. He carried himself with an easy confidence, dressed in a hoodie and gym shorts.

Something twisted in her stomach—unexpected, unwelcome.

Taylor blinked and looked away, focusing on her water bottle. “Yeah.”

“Not bad for a first class.”

She let out a short scoff. “I could barely land a punch.”

He smirked. “That’s normal.” Peeling the rest of the tape from his hands, he tossed it in the trash. “You get used to it.”

She wasn’t sure what to say to that.

Before the silence could stretch too long, Keith clapped his hands. “Alright, break’s over! Back to work.”

The guy shot her a quick nod before heading to the mats.

Taylor lingered for a moment, watching as he joined the group running drills. There was an ease to the way he moved, practiced and sure, like he’d been doing this for years.

Could she be like that? Move with that kind of confidence, fight without second-guessing herself?

She exhaled, rolling out her shoulders. Doubt had no place—not if she wanted to get better. She finished the rest of her water, shaking off the lingering hesitation. One step at a time.

She could do this.

She had to.