From Bullets To Billions

Joe had stepped into the cage, and right away it was clear that a number of the Clapton students recognized him from his recent visit. Their stares were heavy, their fists pounding into open palms like war drums, itching for a chance to take him down.

"I told you," Rick sneered from the sidelines, "that Bloodline group of theirs didn't just send some nobody. They sent one of their top guns."

"It's a good thing we've got some heavy hitters ourselves," he added confidently, eyes narrowed at the ring.

Joe could hear Rick and the others loud and clear, their voices carrying above the buzz of the crowd. It made him rub the back of his neck out of habit, an old nervous tick. Despite all the noise, all the attention, he didn't feel like a "top gun." Being called one of the best fighters at his school? That felt wrong. Like a label someone had accidentally slapped on him and forgot to take off.

"How do you think he'll do?" Jay asked, nodding toward the cage. The question was clearly aimed at Steven, who stood quietly beside him, arms folded.

Steven took a breath before speaking. "I think Joe's biggest problem is being around you lot all the time," he said. "Everyone around him is a monster, freakishly talented, strong, and the same age. He watches you all do things that seem impossible to him. And it gets in his head."

He looked straight at Joe. "But what you don't see is how hard he's worked. The guy's poured everything into this. Every day. Just to feel like he's earned the right to stand next to you all. That kind of hunger, that's not something you can teach."

Jay nodded slowly. He'd noticed it too. Even when they asked Joe about how he beat Ko, he never took credit. He'd brush it off with a shrug, claiming it was just luck or basic boxing skills.

But what Joe didn't understand was that not just anyone could pick up boxing and use it like that in a fight. He might not have been the quickest learner, and maybe he wasn't naturally gifted like others, but he had one thing they didn't. Grit. Relentless effort. Joe put in 200 percent where most people gave 100, and Steven would back that up any day.

While they watched the ring, Max was somewhere else entirely. His mind was still spinning from the call he'd gotten from the Rejected Corps, unable to focus on the match at all.

'I need to figure out just how angry I've made them by not showing up. If I've pushed them too far, I might not have time to fix things,' Max thought, jaw clenched. 'The only thing I've got going for me is that if they called both me and Wolf, then they still need us. They wouldn't reach out if they were ready to cut ties.'

He forced himself to snap out of it just as the opposing fighter stepped into the ring.

His name was Bando, and he wasn't someone to take lightly.

A tall, well-built man of African descent, Bando had bulging muscles and a presence that filled the cage. He came from a school known for redirecting its troublemakers into sports programs, hoping to give them some structure. And for Bando, that sport was baseball.

He was more than just strong. His swing had made him a star batter for the school team, but to succeed in baseball, strength alone wasn't enough. You needed fast reflexes, sharp hand-eye coordination, and serious speed. Unlike most delinquents, Bando had trained, really trained. He wasn't just a street fighter; he was an athlete.

"Time for Clapton's first win," Bando said with a wide, gleaming smile. "I heard from Rick you had the balls to walk into our school."

He stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "You ran off with your tail between your legs last time. But this time? You're in a cage. No exits. Nowhere to run."

The students from the Bloodline group couldn't help but feel a ripple of worry. Bando didn't just talk tough, he looked like he could back it up.

On the sidelines, Print and Erik continued to observe.

"I've never even heard of this Joe guy," Print said. "And they're calling him the Messenger? Guess there's some history there."

Erik didn't respond right away. Then he shook his head. "I've learned my lesson. Every time we doubt the Bloodline group, they flip the script. I'm putting my bet on Joe."

Inside the cage, the two fighters squared up. Bando had the height advantage, he was lean, long-limbed, and clearly athletic.

Almost immediately, Bando went on the offensive. He launched a fast, heavy punch toward Joe. But Joe had been on the mitts with Steven for so long that his body reacted on instinct, he ducked just in time.

Steven had this habit of throwing unexpected hooks at Joe during training, trying to catch him off guard. Annoying then, but now? It was saving his skin.

Bando kept attacking, fast, calculated strikes, one after another. Each one just missed. Joe danced around him, ducking and weaving, narrowly avoiding the blows.

"Bando's fast," Mayson muttered, sitting up straighter. "And those punches look brutal. If even one lands, Joe might not get back up."

Yet, not a single punch had connected.

Then Joe found his moment. He dipped low under another swing and snapped out a jab. Bando raised his forearms just in time to block, but Joe didn't let up.

He threw jab after jab with his left, each punch landing cleanly on Bando's forearms. Textbook technique. Controlled breathing. Perfect rhythm. Every hit had weight behind it.

And still, Bando didn't strike back.

'He's a boxer,' Bando thought. 'So what? Let him burn himself out. I'll block everything, and when he slows down, when there's a gap, I'll end it in one shot.'

Joe's jabs were relentless. Same speed. Same power. Over and over.

And Bando could feel it now, his arms were going numb.

'Just wait... he'll tire out eventually,' Bando told himself. 'He has to.'

Steven, watching from outside the cage, smiled to himself.

"What Joe doesn't realize," he said, voice calm, "is that being surrounded by monsters, always comparing himself to them, turned him into one."