Chapter 3: An Unlikely Mentor
The
cold was a living thing, gnawing through Edward’s thin jacket, seeping into his
bones. Each shiver was a tremor of utter defeat. He was just another piece of
refuse discarded in the alley, waiting for the rain to wash him away into some
forgotten drain. The world had shrunk to the size of this puddle, this pain,
this dark.
A
shadow fell over him, blocking the dim, rain-streaked light from a distant
streetlamp. Edward flinched, expecting a kick, a curse, a demand to move along.
Instead, a voice, calm and firm, cut through the drumming rain. “You look like
you need a hand.”
Edward
forced his head up. The man stood with an easy stability, water streaming from
short-cropped hair and a strong jaw. He was soaked to the skin but seemed
utterly unbothered by it, his athletic frame hinting at a strength Edward could
only envy.
A
large, calloused hand extended toward him. After a moment’s hesitation, his own
trembling, mud-smeared hand reached up. The man’s grip was sure and powerful,
hauling Edward to his feet with an effortless grace that felt utterly alien.
The simple act of standing felt monumental.
“The
name’s John,” the man said, steadying Edward as he swayed.
John
didn’t ask what had happened. He didn’t offer empty platitudes or look at him
with pity. His eyes, a steady grey, simply assessed. He saw the brokenness,
yes, but he seemed to be looking for something else, something buried beneath
the grime and despair.
He
guided Edward out of the alley toward a small, weathered storefront a block
away—a simple gym, its windows fogged with condensation. Inside, it was warm
and smelled of sweat, leather, and disinfectant. It was a functional place, a
place of work. John tossed him a dry towel and a clean sweatshirt.
“I
used to run,” John said, his back to Edward as he filled two mugs with hot
coffee from a pot. “Long distance. Marathons. You learn a lot about yourself
when your body is screaming at you to quit. You learn that the mind breaks long
before the body does.” He turned and handed Edward a mug. The heat was a shock,
a sudden tether back to reality.
“I
saw you run today,” John continued, his gaze direct. “Not like a thief. Like an
athlete. There was a fire in you. A desperation, sure, but also a raw, untamed
power.”
Edward
stared into the black coffee, saying nothing. The memory of the sprint was a
blur of adrenaline and fear.
“The
city’s annual power competition is in six months,” John stated. “It’s not just
a race. It’s an obstacle course, a test of pure strength and endurance. The
kind of thing that separates the talkers from the doers.”
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He
let the words hang in the air between them, steam rising from his mug.
“I
coach people now. Help them find their limits, then push past them.” John
leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, intent murmur. “What do you say?
You’ve got the fire, Edward. I saw it. Let me help you channel it. Let me give
you a direction to run *toward*, instead of just *away from*.”
The
offer hung in the air, absurd and immense. Six months. A competition. It was a
world away from stealing lunches and sleeping in the rain. It was a goal. A
purpose.
Edward
looked at his hands, now warm around the ceramic mug. He looked at John, who
saw a potential he himself could not feel. The shame of the stolen apple still
burned in his gut, but beneath it, a new ember sparked—not of anger, but of
possibility.
He
met John’s steady gaze. His voice was a hoarse, ragged thing, but it was his
own.
“Okay,”
Edward said. “Show me how.”
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