CHAPTER 13: THE STUDENT
Fogwell's Gym at six AM was a ghost.
The building hunched on a corner of Hell's Kitchen like it was trying to disappear. Faded paint. Cracked windows. A sign so weathered I could barely read the name. I'd walked past it a dozen times during my reconnaissance of the neighborhood and never given it a second thought.
Now I stood at the door, knocking on metal that rattled in its frame.
No answer.
I knocked again. Checked my phone—the text had said six AM, hadn't it? This was the place Claire had recommended. The trainer who helped "people like me."
The door opened.
Matt Murdock stood in the doorway.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. My brain scrambled to catch up—Claire had given me this contact. A trainer who helped powered people. And that trainer was Matt?
"You're Roy." Not a question.
"You're my trainer?"
A hint of a smile. "Claire said you needed help. She didn't say it was you."
Of course. Claire knew them both—me from my crash, Matt from his nighttime activities. She'd connected us without either of us knowing who the other was.
"Small world," I managed.
"Hell's Kitchen." Matt stepped aside. "It's smaller than you think."
The gym smelled like history.
Decades of sweat had soaked into the leather of the heavy bags. Chalk dust hung in the air, catching weak morning light through grimy windows. The ring in the center was ancient, its canvas stained with old blood that no amount of cleaning would remove.
"This was my father's gym," Matt said, moving through the space with the ease of long familiarity. "He trained here. Fought here."
"Battlin' Jack Murdock." I'd looked it up after our first meeting. The boxer who wouldn't throw a fight. Who died for his principles.
Matt's head turned slightly. "You did your research."
"I like to know who I'm working with."
He led me to a section of floor mats, worn but serviceable. "Claire said you had... an incident. Something happened you couldn't explain."
"I was attacked. Three men. I shouldn't have survived." I kept my voice steady. "But I did. And I don't know why."
"So you want to learn to fight."
"I want to learn to survive. There's a difference."
Matt was quiet for a moment. I could see him listening—not just to my words, but to whatever biological signals my body was broadcasting. Heart rate. Breathing. The subtle tremors of a man who'd recently discovered he was something other than human.
"Show me your stance."
I tried to remember what I'd seen in movies. Feet apart. Hands up. Weight forward.
Matt circled me once. "Your feet are too wide. Your hands are too low. And you're leaning like you want to fall over."
"So... not great."
"You'd be dead in three seconds against anyone with training." He moved behind me, adjusting my posture with clinical precision. "Narrower base. Hands here—protecting your face. Weight centered."
My muscles protested the unfamiliar position. "This feels wrong."
"It feels wrong because you've never done it before. Your body will learn." He stepped back. "Now throw a punch."
I punched. The bag barely moved.
"Again. With your hips."
I punched again. Marginally better.
"Again."
For an hour, I punched. My form was terrible. My timing was worse. I tripped over my own feet twice, once badly enough to nearly face-plant into the mats. Matt caught me with reflexes that should have been impossible for a blind man.
Neither of us mentioned it.
"Break."
Matt handed me a water bottle. I drank half of it in one desperate gulp, my arms trembling from exertion. The borrowed gym clothes I'd found in a locker were soaked through.
"How do you stand this smell?" I gasped, gesturing at the ancient equipment. Sweat and leather and something else, something that spoke of blood and determination.
Matt's smile was small but genuine. "You get used to it."
We sat on a bench against the wall, the gym settling around us like an old friend. Matt's posture was relaxed but alert—a man who was never truly off-guard.
"Why now?" he asked. "You've been in Hell's Kitchen for weeks. Why start training now?"
I could lie. Give him a surface answer about the attack, about fear, about wanting to protect myself.
But Matt would hear the lie. And after everything—the investment, Karen's case, the growing respect between us—he deserved better.
"I froze." The words came slowly. "When those men attacked me. I had one moment where I could have run, and I froze. My body did... something, and I survived. But it wasn't skill. It wasn't training. It was luck."
Matt listened. Said nothing.
"Luck runs out." I stared at my bruised knuckles. "I don't want to be helpless. I don't want to depend on chance. If something like that happens again, I want to know I can handle it because I'm prepared. Not because the universe decided to give me a break."
Silence stretched between us. Then:
"That feeling. The helplessness. The fear of being caught without options." Matt's voice was quiet. "I know it."
I looked at him. His face was turned toward the ring, memories I couldn't see playing behind his dark glasses.
"My father died because he wouldn't compromise. Because he stood for something when standing got you killed." He paused. "I swore I'd never feel that helpless again. Never let someone else control whether I lived or died."
"Did it work?"
"Sometimes." A ghost of a smile. "Other times, I just learned new ways to be afraid."
I laughed despite myself. Dark humor, shared between two men who'd seen too much.
"Come back Thursday," Matt said, standing. "Eight PM. We'll work on not dying."
"High praise."
"It's a start." He tossed me a small key. "That gets you into the side entrance. Don't abuse it."
The key was warm in my palm. Such a small thing—a piece of metal, a gesture of trust. But it meant something.
Matt Murdock didn't trust easily. I'd seen that from our first meeting. But somewhere in the past hour, something had shifted.
I wasn't just the suspicious investor anymore. I was a student.
It was a beginning.
The walk home was agony.
Every muscle I'd forgotten I had was screaming. My shoulders burned. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else—someone who'd never learned to walk properly.
I stopped at the diner on 45th, sliding into my usual booth with a groan. The new waitress—still not Linda, must work different shifts—brought me coffee without being asked.
"Rough morning?"
"You could say that."
She left me alone with my thoughts and my aching body.
Training with Matt. Twice a week, maybe more. At this rate, it would take months before I could throw a decent punch. Years before I could actually defend myself against trained opponents.
But my powers wouldn't wait that long. Union Allied wouldn't wait that long. The war Matt was fighting against the Russians wouldn't wait that long.
I needed to get faster. Train harder. Find ways to accelerate my learning without triggering my enhancement—which only activated when I was genuinely threatened.
The coffee was bitter. I drank it anyway.
Tuesdays and Thursdays. Eight PM.
In six months, I might not embarrass myself in a fight. I hoped Hell's Kitchen would give me that long.
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