John stood in the middle of his cramped apartment, bare-chested, fists wrapped in tape. The dim light overhead flickered, casting shadows across the faded wallpaper. A heavy punching bag swung lazily in front of him, the surface already worn and split from years of abuse.

  He rolled his shoulders, exhaled, and swung.

  The first punch sent the bag jerking back like it had been hit by a hammer. The second nearly tore it from its chain. John didn’t hold back. He never had to.

  Most people built strength through training, repetition, and struggle. John had something more. Every injury, every broken bone, every split knuckle had left its mark—not just as a scar, but as something deeper. His body remembered damage. And it made him stronger.

  His knuckles had split so many times that the bones beneath were denser, harder. His muscles had torn and repaired themselves so often that they had become something more like iron cords beneath his skin. His body adapted. It didn’t just heal—it evolved.

  He had no super strength. No enhanced reflexes. But when he threw a punch, it landed heavier than any normal man’s. Years of repeated trauma had turned his body into a weapon. Scar tissue layered over muscle, thickening like armor.

  His fist slammed into the bag again. The chains rattled. The stitches at the seams groaned. John didn’t stop.

  The pain in his hands barely registered. His body was used to it. He could remember when his knuckles would split and bleed every time he threw a punch. Now? They barely bruised. His fists hit like bricks because they might as well have been bricks.

  John wiped sweat from his forehead, stepping back to let the bag swing freely. His breathing was steady, his body still humming with tension from the fight at the church. His hands weren’t shaking, but they still burned—the Messiah’s golden light had left its mark.

  A reminder that there was always something out there stronger than him.

  He flexed his fingers, testing the ache. Maybe not for long.

  John walked over to the small fridge in the corner, grabbing a cold bottle of water. He twisted off the cap, took a long drink, and stared at himself in the mirror on the wall. Scars on top of scars.

  They told his story better than words ever could.

  And they weren’t done being written yet.

  A thunderous crash outside rattled the walls, shaking dust from the ceiling.

  John’s head snapped toward the window, muscles tensing. It wasn’t just a car wreck or some dumb street fight. This was something bigger. He moved to the window and peeled back the curtain just enough to see the street below.

  Chaos.

  A massive, hulking creature stood in the middle of the street—its grotesque form a patchwork of bulging, unnatural muscle, its skin a sickly, mottled gray. Its face was distorted, like something that had been human but had rotted and stretched into something monstrous.

  And it wasn’t alone.

  A man was fighting it. Timber. One of the Paragons.

  Timber was massive in his own right—a towering African American man, built like a tree trunk, with a thick beard and a deep, booming voice. His suit had a rugged, almost lumberjack aesthetic, a red and black design that looked almost old-fashioned in contrast to the high-tech gear most heroes wore. He was strong—stronger than almost anyone—and he wielded a huge battle axe with deadly precision.

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  But Timber was losing.

  The creature swung a massive arm, knocking Timber through the side of a parked van like he was nothing. The van folded around his body with a metallic crunch, windows shattering, alarms screaming into the night. Timber groaned but forced himself up, shaking off the debris.

  John hesitated.

  This wasn’t his fight. The Paragons handled things like this. Big, loud, world-ending threats. John fought for the forgotten people. The ones who didn’t have heroes to step in for them.

  But as he looked beyond Timber, he saw the crowd—the bystanders cowering behind cars, running into alleyways, screaming in terror.

  People. Scared. Helpless.

  John sighed and cracked his knuckles. Here we fucking go.

  He grabbed his coat and sprinted for the door.

  John hit the street at full speed, ducking under a swipe from the monstrous creature as it swung at Timber again. He slid past its massive leg, pivoted, and drove a hard punch into its side. The impact rippled through the beast’s flesh, sending a wet thud through the air.

  Timber, seeing the opening, came in from the other side, swinging his massive axe into the creature’s ribs. The weapon bit deep, dark blood splattering the pavement, but the beast roared in rage and swung wildly. John dodged left, Timber went right.

  For a moment, they moved in sync.

  John ducked a swipe, landing two quick jabs into the creature’s exposed gut. Timber followed up with a crushing kick to its knee, forcing it to stagger. They weren’t winning, not yet, but they were keeping it off balance.

  The creature twisted and lunged, catching Timber in its massive grip, lifting him clean off the ground. John saw it coming—leapt forward, driving his full weight into the back of the creature’s knee. The joint buckled, forcing it to release Timber as it stumbled forward with a guttural snarl.

  Timber landed hard but recovered fast. “Nice one,” he grunted.

  John didn’t have time to respond. The beast roared and lashed out, catching John mid-step.

  The impact sent John flying, crashing through the windshield of a parked car. Glass bounced off his arms, pain flaring through his body. A normal man would be dead.

  John groaned, rolling off the hood of the car and spitting blood. His ribs were screaming, his arms aching, but he was still moving.

  The creature snarled in confusion. It didn’t understand why he was getting back up.

  John gritted his teeth, flexing his bloodied hands. “Yeah. I get that reaction a lot.”

  It roared and charged, but before it could strike—

  A massive battle axe slammed into the monster’s skull.

  The blade sank deep, splitting bone, crushing brain matter. The creature let out a gurgling shriek, its body convulsing before it collapsed to its knees. Timber stood behind it, gripping the axe handle, breathing hard.

  Timber exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “You've got one hell of a punch, Damaged.”

  John smirked slightly but winced at the pain in his ribs. “Yeah? Well, next time, I get the axe.”

  Timber chuckled. “Fair enough, appreciate the assist."

  Without another word, Timber dragged the corpse of the beast away.

  John returned to his apartment, tossing his coat aside as he grabbed an ice pack from the freezer. He pressed it against his ribs, grimacing as the cold hit the bruised flesh.

  The TV flickered on. A news report.

  The Paragons save the day once again! Timber defeats monstrous threat!

  John scoffed. Not a single mention of him. Typical. The media only cared about the elite heroes.

  He leaned back against the couch, ice still pressed to his ribs. Nothing new.

  As he exhaled and let his muscles relax, his eyelids grew heavy. The dull ache in his ribs was almost enough to lull him to sleep.

  A knock at the door.

  John’s eyes snapped open. He groaned, pushing himself up, his ribs protesting with every movement. He shuffled to the door, cracking it open.

  Timber stood there, arms crossed. “Hell of a fight tonight.”

  John raised an eyebrow. “How’d you find me?”

  Timber smirked. “Government’s useful sometimes.”

  John grunted. “What do you want?”

  Timber leaned against the doorframe. “I came to offer you something. You should consider trying out for the Paragons. We could use more men like you—people with character, people who don’t act above everyone else.”

  John exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Not my style. I don’t work well in teams, and I like the work I do—protecting the people, not the world.”

  Timber studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Figured you’d say that.” He pushed off the doorframe. “Still, I’ll be keeping an eye on your work. You impressed me, Damaged.”

  John met his gaze, a flicker of respect passing between them. “Likewise.”

  Timber gave him a final nod before turning and walking down the hall, leaving John alone in the doorway.

  John sighed, closing the door behind him. He leaned back against it, ice pack still in hand, and smirked to himself.

  At least someone noticed.