The heavy bag felt exactly the same under his gloves—firm but yielding, like hitting a person-shaped chunk of leather-wrapped concrete. But everything else was wrong in ways that made Liam's head spin like he'd just taken a hard shot to the temple.
His body was too light, too quick, muscles responding with the eager flexibility of youth instead of the beaten-down reluctance he'd grown accustomed to. When he threw his first jab, the punch snapped out clean and straight, nothing like the arm-punches that had characterized his later career. His shoulder didn't protest with the grinding pain of accumulated damage. His wrist didn't throb from years of improper technique. For a moment, he forgot about the impossible situation and just marveled at what his seventeen-year-old body could do.
Then he threw a hook and nearly fell over.
"Jesus Christ," Vinny muttered, steadying him with hands that were surprisingly gentle for someone who'd spent forty years in boxing gyms. "You trying to knock yourself out?"
The problem was muscle memory—or rather, the complete disconnect between his adult mind and his teenage body. His brain knew exactly how a hook should feel. He could visualize the rotation from the legs, the pivot on the ball of the foot, the way the power should travel up through the kinetic chain like electricity through a wire. But his young body had never learned to coordinate those movements. The result was a wild, off-balance swing that would have gotten him laughed out of any gym in the world.
"Sorry," Liam gasped, catching his breath and trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering against his ribs. "I lost my balance."
"Lost your brain, more like." Vinny demonstrated the punch in slow motion, his weathered hands still carrying the precision of forty years in the ring. Every movement was economical, purposeful, showing the kind of technical mastery that only came from decades of repetition. "Power comes from your legs, through your hips, out your shoulder. Your arm's just along for the ride. You're trying to muscle it with your upper body."
Liam nodded, watching carefully. He'd heard this lecture a hundred times in his previous life, usually while sitting on a stool between rounds, too dazed from taking punishment to process the information properly. Now, with his adult understanding and young body, he could actually appreciate the biomechanics involved. Vinny wasn't just telling him to throw a hook—he was explaining the physics of efficient power transfer.
He tried again, focusing on the fundamentals instead of trying to replicate the feeling he remembered from eight years of fighting. Better, but still awkward. His feet were in the wrong position. His weight distribution was off. The timing between his hip rotation and shoulder movement was completely out of sync.
"Your first lesson," ARP's voice cut through his concentration with the bedside manner of a particularly unsympathetic surgeon, "is that knowledge without proper physical conditioning is useless. Your mind knows what to do, but your neural pathways haven't developed the patterns necessary for execution. You are essentially a boxing encyclopedia trapped in the body of someone who has never read the first chapter."
"Can you help with that?" Liam subvocalized, not wanting Vinny to think he was talking to himself.
"I can monitor your progress and identify inefficiencies in real-time, but the physical work must be yours. There are no shortcuts to proper neuromuscular development. Your brain must literally rewire itself through repetition, and that process cannot be artificially accelerated beyond the normal limits of human adaptation."
Frustration built in Liam's chest like steam in a boiler. What was the point of having eight years of hard-earned experience if he couldn't use it? What good were all those painful lessons if his body couldn't execute what his mind understood?
"Again," Vinny said, his voice carrying the patient tone of someone who'd guided thousands of beginners through their first awkward attempts at boxing technique. "And this time, pretend you're not trying to kill the bag."
Over the next hour, Liam worked through basic combinations under Vinny's watchful eye. Jab-cross. Jab-hook. Jab-cross-hook. Simple stuff that he'd drilled thousands of times in his previous life, but his young body made everything feel foreign and clumsy. His feet tangled during footwork drills like he was trying to dance in someone else's shoes. His defensive positioning was garbage, hands dropping the moment he threw a punch. He couldn't even hold his guard up properly for more than a few minutes before his shoulders burned with lactic acid.
The mirror running along the far wall became his enemy, reflecting back a fighter who looked nothing like the mental image he carried of himself. This kid throwing wild, uncoordinated punches bore no resemblance to the veteran fighter who existed in his memories. Even at his worst, even during those final few fights when his skills had deteriorated to embarrassing levels, he'd at least looked like someone who belonged in a boxing gym. This version of himself looked like he was wearing boxing gloves for the first time.
"That's enough," Vinny finally called when Liam was breathing so hard he could barely speak. "You look like you're about to pass out."
Liam was indeed gasping like a fish out of water, sweat already soaking through his t-shirt despite the relatively light workout. At seventeen, he was technically in good shape—he'd been a decent high school athlete, played basketball and ran track—but boxing conditioning was different. Boxing demanded the kind of sustained, explosive output that exposed every weakness in your cardiovascular system while simultaneously requiring the fine motor control that most sports never touched.
"How'd I do?" Liam asked between breaths, though he already knew the answer from Vinny's expression.
The old trainer studied him with those sharp eyes that had evaluated talent for four decades. "You've got decent hand speed for a beginner when you're not trying to throw your shoulder out of its socket. Your jab's not terrible when you remember to extend it properly instead of pushing it out there like you're afraid of hitting something. But your footwork's a mess, you drop your hands every time you throw a punch, and you breathe like you've never done cardio in your life."
All true. All things that had plagued him his entire first career, problems that had never been properly addressed because he'd been too impatient to learn fundamentals and too arrogant to accept that he needed extensive remedial work.
"But," Vinny continued, and Liam felt his heart rate spike with hope, "you listen. Most kids your age think they know everything already. They want to throw bombs before they can throw a proper jab. You ask questions. You try to fix mistakes instead of making excuses for them." He paused, considering. "Come back tomorrow. Same time."
As Vinny walked away to unlock the front door for the morning crowd, ARP materialized another interface in Liam's vision:
MISSION COMPLETED: Survive First Training SessionPERFORMANCE RATING: C+REWARD: +1 Stamina, +2 FundamentalsNEW MISSION: Complete One Week of Basic Training Without Missing a DayPENALTY FOR FAILURE: Temporary Motor Function Impairment (24 Hours)
The stat increases were tiny—barely noticeable—but Liam could feel something shifting in his body. His breathing came a little easier. His stance felt marginally more stable. It was like someone had made micro-adjustments to his athletic software.
"The improvements are minimal by design," ARP explained, as if reading his thoughts. "Athletic development requires time and repetition to build proper neural pathways. I can optimize your progress and identify areas for improvement, but I cannot circumvent the biological realities of skill acquisition. Think of me as an extremely sophisticated training partner rather than a magical enhancement system."
Other fighters started filtering into the gym as the morning wore on, and Liam felt a strange sense of déjà vu watching faces he recognized from his previous timeline. There was "Big Mike" Rodriguez, the heavyweight who'd given him some of his worst beatings in sparring, already working the speed bag with the kind of hand-eye coordination that made it look effortless. Marcus Williams was hitting the heavy bag with combinations that sounded like machine-gun fire, each punch landing with precision and power that made Liam's own efforts look pathetic by comparison.
And then Carmen Rodriguez walked in around eight o'clock, already dressed for training, her dark hair pulled back in the no-nonsense ponytail she'd worn throughout her amateur career. She moved through the gym with the confidence of someone who belonged there, who had earned her place through skill and dedication rather than just showing up and hoping for the best.
She looked incredible. Not just beautiful—though she was certainly that—but like a genuine athlete. Every movement was purposeful, economical, showing the kind of body awareness that marked natural fighters. When her eyes swept across the gym and briefly met his, Liam felt the same jolt of attraction that had scrambled his brains the first time they'd met nine years ago.
But now he knew how that story ended. Carmen would be polite but distant, focused on her own goals while he spiraled into mediocrity and self-destruction. She'd watch him take beatings for years before finally writing him off as another gym dreamer who couldn't handle the reality of professional boxing. She'd been kind about it, but the message had been clear: she was going places, and he wasn't invited along for the ride.
Not this time. This time, he was going to earn her respect before trying to win her affection.
"You checking out Carmen?" a voice said behind him, and Liam turned to see Demetrius Washington pulling on his gloves. Demetrius had that same cocky grin that had annoyed Liam for years, the kind of natural confidence that came from being blessed with physical gifts that made everything look easy. "Good luck with that, man. She don't mess with amateur hour."
In his previous life, Liam had risen to that bait immediately, starting a rivalry that had pushed him to take fights he wasn't ready for and spar with opponents who were levels above his skill. Demetrius was naturally gifted, blessed with the kind of athletic ability that made boxing look effortless. He was also lazy, undisciplined, and would eventually wash out of boxing when the competition got serious enough to expose his lack of fundamentals.
"Just focusing on my own training," Liam said mildly, surprised by how calm his voice sounded.
Demetrius looked genuinely surprised by the non-response. He'd probably expected the new kid to either get defensive or try to prove something. "Yeah? Well, maybe we can spar sometime. Show you how it's done."
"Maybe when I'm ready."
"When you're ready?" Demetrius laughed, but there was something uncertain in it. "Man, you sound like an old guy. How long you planning to stay in the amateur ranks?"
"As long as it takes to learn properly."
This time Demetrius actually stopped what he was doing, turning to study Liam with new interest. "Seriously? You're like, what, seventeen? You could be making money in a year if you push hard enough. Why waste time with amateur shit?"
"Making money getting knocked out," Liam replied, thinking of his own professional debut—a first-round knockout loss against a fighter named Tony Guzman who'd probably forgotten Liam's name before he'd even left the arena. "I've seen the local pro cards. Half those guys are just there to pad someone else's record."
The truth of it hung in the air between them like smoke from a cigarette. Demetrius's face flushed slightly because they both knew Liam was right. The regional professional scene was littered with fighters who'd turned pro too early, building losing records against marginal competition while learning bad habits that would follow them their entire careers.
"Whatever, man," Demetrius muttered, turning back to his gloves with less enthusiasm than before. "Your funeral."
If only he knew, Liam thought, remembering the feeling of Tommy Morrison's fist connecting with the back of his skull.
ARP's voice carried a note of something that might have been approval: "Your emotional regulation has improved significantly from your previous iteration. In your original timeline, you would have accepted his sparring challenge immediately and taken an unnecessary beating that would have set back your development by weeks."
"I was an idiot."
"You were young, proud, and possessed of more confidence than skill. A common combination among failed athletes. The encouraging development is that you appear to be learning from your previous mistakes rather than simply repeating them."
As Liam gathered his gear to leave, he caught Carmen watching him from across the gym. Her expression was curious—maybe even impressed by how he'd handled Demetrius. For a moment, their eyes met again, and she gave him the smallest nod before turning back to her own training.
It wasn't much. But it was more than he'd gotten the first time around.
Walking out of Santino's into the Philadelphia morning, Liam felt the weight of eight years of failures and the impossible gift of a second chance pressing down on his shoulders like a heavy bag. His body ached in all the right places, the good soreness that came from honest work rather than taking punishment. The autumn air was crisp and clean, carrying the promise of winter and the endless possibility that came with starting over.
Tomorrow he'd be back. The day after that, too. And maybe, if he was smart enough and disciplined enough and patient enough this time around, he could build something worth the price of his previous life's pain.
"One day at a time," he murmured to himself as he walked down the familiar streets of South Philadelphia.
"Indeed," ARP agreed, its voice carrying what might have been satisfaction. "Though I should warn you—tomorrow's training will be significantly more challenging. I've analyzed your performance today and identified seventeen specific areas requiring immediate attention."
"Only seventeen?"
"I'm being conservative. The actual number is closer to forty-three, but I've prioritized based on which deficiencies are most likely to result in serious injury if left unaddressed."
Liam almost smiled despite himself. Even his AI was realistic about his shortcomings. But for the first time in longer than he could remember—in either lifetime—he felt something that might have been hope stirring in his chest.
He had work to do. Mountains of it. But he also had something he'd never possessed before: the knowledge of exactly what not to do, paired with a system designed to keep him on the right path.
As he turned the corner toward home, where his parents would be getting ready for work and completely unaware that their son had just died and been reborn in the space of a single morning, Liam Page began planning for a future that felt possible for the first time in his life.
After twenty-five professional fights and a death in the ring, he'd finally learned the most important lesson boxing had to teach: sometimes you have to lose everything to understand what's worth fighting for.
Now he just had to prove he was worthy of the chance to try again.