The first punch wasn't supposed to land.
Michael Pain felt it anyway.
It came from a man twice his size, swinging wild inside the cramped basement gym. Sweat, old leather, and rusted metal filled the air. The kind of place where the lights flickered more than they worked.
Michael didn't even flinch at first.
He was cleaning the floor.
Mop in one hand, bucket at his feet. Earphones in, music low enough to still hear the world.
"Hey! You gonna clean or sleep down there?" someone yelled from the ring above.
Michael tilted his head slightly."Multitasking," he muttered.
A few people laughed.
Then the punch happened.
Not at him — near him. A sparring mistake. The fighter missed his target and his fist slammed into the wall beside Michael's head.
Dust exploded.
The music in his ear kept playing.
Michael looked up slowly.
"Yo," he said calmly, "you trying to renovate the place or fight?"
The fighter blinked. "My bad."
"Yeah," Michael replied, "your bad's expensive. That wall's older than me."
More laughter. Even the trainer up top shook his head.
That was Michael Pain. Seventeen years old. Orphan. Cleaner. Resident joker of a dying gym in the middle of New York City.
No one really knew what he was good at.
Except maybe surviving.
He went back to mopping.
The gym owner, a heavy-built man with scarred knuckles and tired eyes, leaned on the railing above.
"You done after this?" the man called down.
"Depends," Michael said without looking up. "If the floor survives me, yeah."
"You live upstairs. The floor survives everything."
"That's because I carry it emotionally."
Another chuckle from the room.
But then—
The lights flickered.
Not normal flicker.
This was sharper. Cleaner. Like reality skipped a frame.
Michael paused.
The mop stopped mid-swipe.
"…That happen to anyone else?" he asked casually.
No answer.
The sparring continued. The trainer shouted. The rhythm of the gym stayed alive.
But Michael didn't move.
Because in front of him—
Something appeared.
Not in the air.
Not on a wall.
Inside his vision.
A faint blue rectangle, glitching like a broken screen trying to load a world.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING…]
Michael blinked.
"…Okay," he whispered. "That's new."
He waved a hand through it.
Nothing.
The screen didn't move.
It waited.
Then changed.
[USER DETECTED: MICHAEL PAIN][SYNCING…]
Michael slowly straightened.
The mop slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a wet slap.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Either I'm tired… or I finally snapped."
The screen flickered again.
[STATUS PANEL LOADING]
A second later.
Lines of data formed.
STRENGTH: 8SPEED: 9ENDURANCE: 7REFLEX: 10INTELLIGENCE: 14COMBAT INSTINCT: 5
Michael stared.
Then leaned slightly forward.
"…My intelligence is 14?" he muttered. "Who tested this? A toaster?"
The screen did not respond.
Upstairs, someone shouted for another round. Gloves hit pads. Life continued like nothing had changed.
But Michael's world had shifted.
He reached out again.
Still nothing physical.
Only the screen.
Then—
A new line appeared.
[TASK AVAILABLE]
Clean training area (0/1) Assist maintenance work (0/1)
REWARD: UNKNOWN
Michael narrowed his eyes.
"…You're joking."
He looked around.
No cameras.
No phones pointed at him.
No prankster laughing.
Just sweat, noise, and broken lights.
He bent down slowly, picked up the mop again.
"Alright," he said under his breath. "Let's see what kind of weird day this is."
He started cleaning again.
But this time—
Every movement felt slightly… clearer.
Like his body understood itself a little better.
Not stronger.
Just sharper.
And behind him, the screen flickered once more.
Waiting.
Watching.
[SYSTEM STABILITY: 3%]
Michael didn't see that line.
Not yet.
But if he had—
He probably would've stopped smiling.