Blaze Carter was the kind of guy nobody looked at twice. Not in the streets. Not in the room. Not even in his own reflection anymore.
His alarm went off at 6:00 AM, but he didn't move. Not yet.Not when there was nothing worth waking up for.
The peeling paint on the ceiling above him told the whole story. Cracked. Weak. Forgotten.
Then came the knock.
Blaze sighed, pulling himself up. The landlord again. Another threat, another notice.
When he opened the door, it wasn't the landlord. It was Kyle, one of the guys he used to hang with. Same worn hoodie, same bloodshot eyes, same smell of cheap vodka on his breath.
"Yo," Kyle grinned. "Few of us are heading to Mason's later. Cards, maybe drink a little. Come through."
Blaze glanced down at himself—socks with holes, pants two sizes too big. His stomach growled, but he ignored it.
Something inside him snapped.Not anger. Not sadness. Just… tired.
He didn't even know why he said it, but he did:
"I'm done."
Kyle blinked. "What?"
"I'm done wasting time. Done pretending this is enough."
Kyle scoffed. "Man, you are broke if you're talking motivational poster nonsense now."
Blaze didn't flinch. "Yeah. I'm broke. But I'm gonna work like I'm rich."
And he closed the door.
For the first time in years, Blaze felt awake. Like his blood was finally pumping.
One thought echoed in his mind like a spark in dry grass:
"No one's coming to save me. If I don't work, I don't eat. If I don't fight, I don't live."
He dropped to the floor and started doing pushups.Arms shaking. Breath burning. Chest aching.
Ten reps. That's all he could manage.But tomorrow, it'd be eleven.
It wasn't much.But it was a start.