Rof arrived promptly at six the next morning. The location, a slim building sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a former barbershop on Carpenter Street, was unassuming. There was no sign, and the door was heavy metal, reminding him of a storage unit. Rof knocked, but there was no response. Testing the handle, he found it open.
Inside, stairs led down to a basement illuminated by a single bare bulb, casting a warm yellow glow. The unmistakable scent of a gym filled the air: rubber mats, iron, and decades of sweat ingrained into the walls. Following the stairs, Rof descended into the basement.
Despite the lack of signage or advertising, it was surprisingly well-equipped. A full-sized ring occupied the center, complete with real ropes, quality canvas, and corner posts padded properly. Heavy bags lined the left wall, speed bags on the right, and a well-maintained rack of weights. Mirrors, slightly distorted with time, covered the far wall.
Manny was already there, rhythmically hitting a heavy bag with the intensity of a man who'd done it countless times, transforming the exercise into a language. He was slow, deliberate, not exerting himself but conversing with the bag.
Upon Rof's arrival at the basement, Manny halted and turned. "Six-ten," he said, "I said six."
"The door was locked until six," Rof countered. "I knocked at six."
"I know. I heard you." Manny began to unwrap his hand. "I wanted to see if you'd wait or leave."
Rof looked at him. "How long would you have let me wait?"
"Until six-fifteen." Manny's lips hinted at a smile. "Then I would have decided you didn't want it enough. Six to six-ten is patience. Six-fifteen is stubbornness. Different thing." He gestured to the rack on the wall. "Wraps. Left side. Tape them yourself. I want to see how you do it."
Rof proceeded to wrap his hands. He didn't do it extravagantly. His technique was learned from observing fighters in parking lots and watching YouTube videos in the library, practical knowledge rather than formal training. He did it neatly and efficiently.
Manny watched in silence.
"Hit the bag," he instructed. "Don't think. Just hit."
Rof complied. He lasted two minutes, throwing the street combinations, the brutal efficient punches that had taken out Tank, and the instinctive movement that was untrained but not random. He hit the bag the way he fought — devoid of theatrics, unadorned, purely pragmatic.
Manny watched.
When Rof stopped, panting heavily, Manny approached the bag and steadied it. He examined the dents Rof had made, then looked at Rof. "You have no business hitting that hard with no training," he stated matter-of-factly.
"I know," Rof replied.
"Your footwork is wrong. Your guard drops after the third punch in every combination — you know you do that?"
"I didn't. Now I do."
"Your right hand is your weapon, and you know it, so you set everything up for it, which means anyone watching you for thirty seconds knows it too." Manny tilted his head. "Except that's not what happened against Silas. Against Silas, you finished with your left."
Rof wiped his forehead. "You saw that fight."
"I see most fights in this city," Manny admitted, without further explanation. "You were in the crowd."
"I was. I've been at four events in the last three months." He walked to the ring, resting a hand on the rope. "I saw Tank. I saw Silas. I saw what happened in the third round when Silas hit you twice in the same spot." He looked at Rof across the gym. "You should have gone down."
"People keep saying that."
"Because it's true." Manny's voice remained steady. "I've been in boxing my entire adult life. Trained fighters, managed fighters, fought myself until my left knee had opinions about it. I know what that punch does to a man. I know the neurology of it." He paused. "You didn't go down. Your legs bent and straightened as though the ground wasn't an option."
The gym was silent.
"What are you?" Manny asked.
Same question as Silas. Different weight. Silas asked it with hunger. Manny asked it with something closer to recognition.
"I don't know the full answer yet," Rof admitted.
Manny nodded, as though that was the expected response, the only response that would have allowed the conversation to continue.
"Okon," Manny said.
Rof went still.
"I know who's in that bracket," Manny continued. "I know Dara Okon. Trained with him briefly, six years ago, when he was still a professional. Before the fight." He moved back towards the center of the gym, his movements efficient, the particular economy of a man whose body had learned to conserve. "He's a good man. That's the thing people don't realize about him. He's genuinely a good man who has something in him he doesn't fully understand, and it terrifies him."
"He hurt someone," Rof said.
"He didn't mean to." Manny's voice was certain. "I know what deliberate damage looks like. What happened in that fight wasn't deliberate. It was a man whose power surpassed his control for a moment." He gazed at Rof directly. "You understand that particular problem."
Rof thought about the speed, about not being able to control it, about it rising of its own accord. "Yeah," he said. "I understand it."
Manny pointed at the ring. "Get in," he ordered.
Rof complied.
Manny climbed in across from him, moved to the center, and raised his hands — not to fight, but to demonstrate. His stance was classic, disciplined, the posture of someone trained before aesthetics mattered.
"First thing," Manny began. "Guard. Every time. Non-negotiable. I don't care what's happening in your head or how slow everything looks to you. The guard stays."
"How do you know about—"
"Second thing," Manny interjected, as if Rof hadn't spoken. "Okon's power comes from his legs. Not his shoulders. People watch the shoulders and get destroyed by what the legs started three seconds earlier." He shifted his weight, demonstrating. "You want to survive the first two rounds — watch his feet. Not his hands. Not his eyes. His feet."
Rof watched.
"Third thing," Manny continued. His voice lowered, taking on a heavier tone. "Whatever you have inside you — whatever makes your knees straighten and the world slow down — don't reach for it. Let it come. The moment you need it, it will be there if you've done everything else correctly." He held Rof's gaze. "Faith isn't passive. It's doing all the work and then trusting the part you can't do."
The gym was deathly silent.
"That's not boxing advice," Rof remarked.
"No," Manny agreed. "It isn't."
They locked eyes across the ring.
Rof thought about the church the previous day. About a broad-shouldered man who'd been there before him and would remain after. About coincidences that didn't feel like coincidences.
"Eleven days," Manny announced. He moved to his corner. "We start with the guard. We fix that first. Then footwork. Then combinations that don't telegraph." He leaned against the turnbuckle. "And Rof."
Rof looked up.
"The cross," Manny said. "Leave it on. Every session."
Rof didn't question why. Some instructions didn't need clarification, just compliance.
He raised his hands.
They got to work.