I wake up on the floor of my empty mansion, the hardwood cold against my cheek, blood drying from a cut above my eye. The house is half-repossessed—furniture gone, photos of Maureen torn down. Leila’s stuffed bear lies in the corner, covered in dust. I don’t remember how I got here. Last thing I recall is the fight—the towel thrown in, the crowd booing, the ref’s nose gushing after I headbutted him. I lost. Everything.

I stumble to the bathroom, barely recognizing the hollow-eyed man in the mirror. My hands shake. I want a drink. I want to hit something. But all I can hear is Leila’s voice from yesterday: 'I don’t want to see you anymore.'

I drive to the Wills Gym, not to fight, not to train—just to escape. Tick’s there, wiping down equipment. He looks at me like I’m already dead.

'You want something, champ?' he asks.

I swallow hard. 'I want to come back.'

He laughs once. 'You can’t come back. You gotta start over. And the first step? You clean this place. Every floor, every bag, every toilet. You do it sober. You do it every day. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll think about helping you.'

I look down. 'I’ll start now.'

This is where it begins—not with a punch, but with a mop.