TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains first-person depictions of suicide and eating disorders.

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On the corner of Chestnut and Third in the city of Ashland, Michigan, was a rundown boxing gym. Its concrete was faded and criss-crossed with cracks. Decades of window air conditioning units had dripped half a dozen dark, vertical stains along its old walls. The building bore its scars well, as if proud to be different.

It stood apart from its neighbors. Hulking, where they were delicate; old, where they sported modern plastic facades.

Meaty impacts and guttural grunts resounded within.

Billy’s Kickboxing was written in bold above its door, which was inset a couple of steps into the cement sidewalk. Two distinct lights beamed through the foggy glass of the door, like eyes watching the night, daring anyone brave enough to approach the sounds of violence.

Inside, a young man squared off against a leather bag.

Sitting backward in a folding chair, an older man in a stained, sleeveless shirt watched him.

Punching bags hung along the room's corners, spaced evenly between weights and benches. One corner was dedicated to a pair of bruised speed bags. The chipped concrete floor was visible in only a few locations, covered mainly in an inch-thick black mat bearing years of scuff marks.

The young man snapped a quick right cross. The impact shuddered up his arm but barely registered. He let the sound of the heavy impact guide his body into the next move. His other fist swung low, tapping twice in rapid succession.

He twisted, the motion abrupt and violent. His shin snapped up and cracked against the thick leather with the sound of a gunshot.

“Jason with the one-two followed by a low kick staggers his opponent,” the older man muttered from the sidelines. His voice was low but possessed a subtle, ironic undertone as if he found the entire situation ridiculous.

“The bag is winded. It’s reeling, and oh! Ho! Jason steps into its space, unleashing a devastating pair of sucker punches that would leave the average man wheezing. The bag is hit. It’s shaking. It just can’t handle the sheer power unleashed by the Panther’s rising star!”

“Would you shut up,” Jason snapped, springing back from the bag.

The bag swayed, drunk. Its polished leather reflected Jason’s sweaty buzz cut like a distorted mirror.

He spun to meet the old man’s steady gaze. “Like, let me practice in peace for once, Billy.”

“Mhmm.” Billy knew what practice looked like, and this wasn’t it. “When’d you say you were plannin’ on signing on for the upcoming tourney?”

“Are you still on about that?” Jason finally lowered his wrapped fists to his sides and stalked to the corner of the gym.

The gloves flew off with a harsh rip of Velcro. They slapped into the open top of a duffel bag with a dull whump.

“I told you, I’m not going to go fight in front of a bunch of randos.”

“You’d be fighting for yourself.” Billy wasn’t fazed by Jason’s curt tone. “You’d be good. Better than good. You could win.”

“If I already know I’m going to win, why should I bother?” Jason raised a playful brow to the old man as he flopped down on the bench. He flinched slightly, tensing up his core like the motion had caused him pain.

Billy’s eyes watched him like a hawk. Jason shrugged off his attention and turned to his duffel bag. He pulled out a plastic shaker bottle and filled it with two scoops of an off-white powder from an unmarked plastic bag. All his movements were aggressively efficient.

They were the only ones in the gym. The hum of the building’s furnace merged with the gentle buzzing of the fluorescent lights. An undertone of stale sweat hung in the air, avoiding the back corner where a line of healthy mint plants that Billy had been cultivating since the Stone Age peeked curiously from above their ceramic pots.

Billy eyed his young charge. The bunk down the hall was free. It would be no trouble, though Billy knew Jason wouldn’t see it that way. It wasn’t...needed, even if it was necessary. Before he found a way to break the silence, Jason stood.

“I’m off. It’s already late enough as is.”

Jason threw on his gray hoodie, zipped up his duffel bag, and tossed it over his shoulder. The metal whisk in the shaker bottle clattered loudly as he mixed up the drink.

“Think about it, Jason,” Billy called, but Jason just raised a hand in farewell.

He shouldered his way out of the gym and into the cold night.

The door slammed behind him, and he froze. The freezing air ruffled his hood as he took in the fresh snow covering the rough concrete.

He grimaced.

“God, this sucks,” he muttered. A plume of misted breath rose from under his hood.

Frost followed him as he trudged home with his hands lodged firmly in his pockets. Ice crystals collected on the corners of dark windows as he passed. He hopped onto the street, walking quickly as he focused on avoiding the piles of dirty, compressed snow left by the recent snowfall. As usual, the snow plows had forgotten that people still used the sidewalks in the winter.

Jason glanced at Lake Michigan's unusually calm surface before he slipped down a dark alleyway. He easily dodged around a familiar pile of refuse. This path cut fastest through the inner city to get to his dorm.

Jason stepped out of the alley into what could only be called another alley. It was a space in between blocks where the residents of the nearby houses could park their cars, an amenity even non-locals took advantage of.

“You’re new,” Jason muttered, squeezing by a red Camaro.

“Yo! Stop right there!”

A rough, male voice whisper-shouted from Jason’s right. He froze, half turning to behold a heavily clothed figure stepping out of the shadows. The figure wore heavy leather boots, the left one bearing a visible black scuff above the big toe. Above that were faded jeans and a fluffy parka that was at odds with the ill-fitting ski mask obscuring the person’s face.

In gloved hands, the man pointed a cheap plastic pistol at Jason. The telltale ridges of a 3D print were visible on the handle and barrel of the stubby gun.

“Yo...” Jason said, his hands slowly rising from his pockets to settle somewhere beside his ears. “Not cool, bro.”

“Your money, punk!” The wannabe gangster gestured wildly with his gun. His mask puffed every time he took a breath.

“You serious?” Jason’s tone rose as his hands fell slightly. He couldn’t help but notice the man’s gun practically vibrating in his hands. “Do I look like someone who’s got more than ten bucks on them?”

The man stepped forward and pressed the hard muzzle of the gun to Jason’s forehead.

“Then hand it over. It’s that or a bullet through the head.”

The hard glimmer in Jason’s eyes crystallized into an onyx gleam. He straightened, pushing his head into the gun. His hands fell all the way down.

“Oh yeah, tough guy? Go ahead. Do it! I dare you.” Jason’s eyes bored into the mugger’s.

The mugger’s eyes flicked down, then back up.

Jason’s tone turned disgusted. “But you won’t, will you? You don’t even have the balls to dunk that gun in acetone, so it looks nice, you sniveling garbage heap.”

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“I will! Don’t think I won’t.” The man squared his shoulders. His eyes gained a manic gleam.

“What are you waiting for then, huh? Do it!” Jason roared loud enough that it echoed down the alley.

The man ground his teeth, stretching his ski mask over his angular jaw. He flicked the gun to the side and squeezed the trigger. A burst of light and a harsh bang sounded right next to Jason’s ear.

The man moved his gun back to point at his head.

“It’s loa—”

Jason moved. His hand snapped up, smashing into the man’s wrist hard enough that the gun flew out of his grip. He shoved into the other man's space. Instinct took over. His entire body twisted violently to drive a brutal right uppercut through the parka and into the man’s solar plexus.

A faint wheeze of tortured air hissed through the ski mask, like a question, as the mugger fell backward.

Jason wasn’t done. He stepped with the staggering man and drove an elbow into his jaw, then stepped back to deliver a bone-shattering kick right above the man’s knee.

The mugger folded like a wet rag. His eyes nearly popped out of his skull as he collapsed against the brick wall. Tiny sputtering hiccups pushed red blood into the fabric of his mask.

Jason bounced on his toes once, oblivious at that moment to the cold, before he slowly fell out of his combat stance. The sorry man curled into a ball at his feet, struggling to breathe around a spasming diaphragm.

Jason picked up the gun, shaking some snow off of it. He crouched before the shaken man.

“How could you miss?” Jason said conversationally. “I was like... right in front of you.”

The man wheezed. Tears blinded his large, soulful eyes as he struggled to focus on Jason.

“Shit,” Jason said, rolling his jaw in an attempt to alleviate the ringing in his ear. That gunshot had been loud.

“Sorry about...” Jason paused. “Never mind.”

Jason sighed, turning the gun over in his hands.

“What bike you ride?” Jason gestured to the man’s boot after a moment of silence. “I used to have a DRZ. There was a good trail right around Windasher Park. Hell of a good time. Less so recently, but yeah.”

“Uh-uhm sowwy,” the man said, scooting farther up the brick wall, only for his boot to slip on the slick ground.

“You’re sorry?” Jason blinked twice at the man. What was this guy? Dense?

“Yuh... Didn’ mea’ noffing by i’. Hones’,” The man whimpered, his words barely intelligible. “Pwease dun hut me, Uhm... pwease.”

“Looks like you bit your tongue. You should get that checked out in case I broke your jaw.” Jason looked away, mildly disgusted by the sniveling wreck at his feet. His eyes settled on his shaker bottle, lying in a snowdrift. Pale white liquid dribbled out of a crack in the cheap plastic.

Jason’s expression darkened.

“You broke my dinner,” Jason stated, his voice emotionless.

The mugger’s eyes grew wide as dinner plates as they fixated on the broken bottle. “Uh-uhm soww—”

Jason stood.

The man’s voice cut off like he'd taken another punch to the gut.

“Get out of here,” Jason said.

The man didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, still wheezing, and rushed down the alley. Jason watched him go, his eyes clouded and dark. Just as the man was about to round the corner, Jason raised the gun and pointed it after him.

“Bang,” Jason whispered to himself, faking the recoil. The mugger vanished around the corner. “And good riddance. Asshole.”

The little light in the alley seemed to vanish with the mugger’s escape. Jason’s breath fogged out in great plumes. The cold of winter snuck vicious little attacks at Jason’s fingertips. He ignored it all. His gaze remained locked on the last place he’d seen the man. Thoughts swirled through his mind. He shared none of them with the world.

Suddenly, Jason looked down. The pistol held loosely in his grip seemed to suck in the meager light. His hand tightened, the knuckles turning white, causing the cheap plastic to creak.

“Well, why not?” Jason muttered to the sound of his heartbeat.

It pounded in his skull. A raging river that drowned out the distant sounds of the city. Drops of sweat that had nothing to do with his recent exertion beaded on his temple. They flowed onto his hoodie, pulling precious heat with them as the winter wind claimed its prize.

Jason’s eyes hardened at his body’s betrayal. With a swift, smooth motion, he brought the tiny pistol to the underside of his chin.

He squeezed the trigger.

The roar of gunfire echoed for the second time in as many minutes. The gun tore itself from his grip as he staggered against the brick wall. Shocked and horrified in equal measure, bitter black blood oozed from under his chin.

He coughed. Little bolts of pain and cold shot from the new opening on the underside of his chin. His thoughts stuttered like a scratched record.

How was he alive?

He fell to his knees and had to stifle a groan. Ash and grit ground against his teeth. He fumbled for the gun with one hand while the other pressed futilely against the slow tide of blood. His hand slipped through the snow, finding the gun and raising it to study.

Nothing was overtly wrong. The plastic was cheap, but the barrel wasn’t bent or melted. The safety was off, and there was a round in the chamber. Jason wasn’t an expert on guns, but to his untrained eye, the thing appeared functional. It sounded had functional as well.

So... why?

Jason raised the gun again, his hand shaking violently, and pointed it at a pile of snow. He squeezed the trigger, unable to stop himself from flinching as the roar of gunfire echoed in the alley.

When he opened his eyes, there was no bullet hole in the snow. Only a spattering of black dust and what looked like a bit of burned paper sizzled darkly atop the snow.

At his feet rolled a brass casing, smoking slightly as it contacted the snow.

A casing, but no bullet.

“Unbelievable,” Jason gurgled around a mouthful of blood. A steady stream of red stained the front of his gray hoodie. All tension drained from his body as he fell back. Waves of ironic mirth shook his frame. “I want out! Is that too much to ask?”

He remained like that for a while, laughing and crying in equal measure as he swallowed and spat more and more of the gritty blood. The cold had seeped into his bones by the time he heard a faint siren in the distance.

Jason turned toward the sound and judged it to be approaching. With a world-weary sigh, he staggered to his feet.

The gun he tossed into a dumpster before continuing on his way. The dorm wasn’t far from here, surprisingly enough. A couple more blocks, dodging through alleys and side streets.

Within minutes, he arrived at one of the large square dorm buildings of Ashland Community College. No one bothered him, not that he expected anyone to be out and about this late, given the weather.

He climbed the stairs to his room, thankful that none of the other students were in the landing as he entered. The building was old, with exposed brickwork that reeked of sweat and cologne no matter how much air freshener was used.

Jason approached his door but paused with his hand on the knob.

“Please be out. Please be out,” he muttered to himself.

The staircase’s heavy fire door slammed open behind him, and he jumped. Before whoever it was rounded the bend, Jason turned the knob and stepped into his apartment.

He had around half a second to take in the standard dorm living room — a couch straddled by two armchairs, a side table repurposed as a console gaming setup — before his gaze was drawn to the tangle of limbs on the couch.

Tyler was slouched in the cushions, his shirt missing and displaying an impressive pair of pecs as his girlfriend, Corrine, straddled him. Her crop top was shoved up, exposing her midriff and the underside of a neon orange sports bra. Their faces were mashed together behind a curtain of Corrine’s wavy blonde hair.

They jumped guiltily apart at the sound of Jason’s entry.

“Hey, man—Holy shit!” Tyler leaned forward and just barely caught Corrine before she toppled.

“Oh my god!” Corrine gasped. She quickly disentangled herself from the couch, shoving her crop top down before rushing to Jason. “What happened?! Oh my god, your hoodie’s soaked...”

Jason let the short girl lead him to the kitchen table. Her words flowed over him, listless as a summer breeze.

He sank onto the standardized sturdy oak chair, utterly unable to muster up the energy to shoo away the pair. With a sigh, he closed his eyes.

“Hold on, I’ll get the first aid kit.” Tyler rushed out of the room.

“Call an ambulance!” Corrine shouted after him. She was wiping Jason’s neck with a wet cloth, keeping up a steady litany of words. They were probably meant to be soothing. Jason just found them annoying.

“You’re okay, Jason. We’ve got you. Tyler’s gonna call an ambulance, and we can get you fixed up in no time...”

Jason tuned her out, slumping further in the chair. Every part of him ached.

The adrenaline and cold had dulled the pain in his mouth, but there was something about the warmth of the apartment that brought it all back in full force. An adrenaline crash, a tiny voice in his head whispered. He winced, wishing he was anywhere but here.

Corrine’s caring touch felt cloying. Tyler’s nervous hovering felt disingenuous. Especially with the way he kept readjusting his pants.

Jason was struck by the thought of how predictable the pairs’ actions were. He couldn’t help but be disappointed that neither had done something surprising upon his entrance. Maybe been angry at whoever did this to him. Or guessed as to how it had happened. But no, they just went along with the boring, safe option.

He sighed again and winced as a light flickered under his closed eyes.

“Hold still, Jason,” Corrine said distantly.

“Cory. Wait a sec. Do you see that?” Tyler spoke next.

Jason scrunched his eyes closed, yet the annoying light continued flickering in his vision. Suddenly, the lights coalesced, and Jason could only blink owlishly as holographic letters manifested within his vision.

‘ding!’ ‘Mana saturation critical. Transferring to the Tutorial’

Everything went black. And Jason was falling.