: Starting from Zero

"Jack, get your head in the game," Lena barked, stepping back and watching his shaky movements. "Again."

Jack clenched his fists, sweat dripping down his forehead. He sucked in a breath, squared up to the punching bag, and swung. His right hand connected with a dull thud, but it wasn't strong. The bag barely shifted, and disappointment flared in his chest.

"Pathetic," Jack muttered under his breath, frustration boiling over.

"Hey, cut that out," Lena said, her voice slicing through the self-pity. "You're your own worst enemy right now. What's up? You're dragging worse than last week."

Jack wiped his face with a grimy towel, avoiding her eyes. "I don't know if I'm cut out for this. I feel like I'm just wasting time. My punches are weak. My legs can barely hold me up. It feels like I'm not improving at all."

Lena watched him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You expected to be a pro in a few weeks? Wake up, Jack. This isn't some montage where you magically become unstoppable. You're building a foundation, and foundations are messy. Painful. Frustrating as hell. But they matter."

Jack dropped the towel onto the bench and let out a defeated sigh. "It's not just that. I'm trying to make sense of everything. Of Ethan. Of why I'm even here." He ran a hand through his damp hair. "I thought fighting would give me answers, but all I feel is lost."

Lena's gaze softened. She stepped closer. "Ethan was your brother. No one expects you to have it all figured out. Grief's a beast, Jack, and trying to fight it in here? It takes guts. But stop thinking you have to be him."

Jack's fists clenched, and his jaw tightened. "How do I stop?"

"Stop?" Lena repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You're not stopping anything. You're shifting focus. Right now, you're fighting against yourself, and that's a fight you'll lose every time. Look, you have to decide: Are you here to find strength, or are you here to tear yourself down because you're not Ethan?"

The words stung. Jack had been walking around with Ethan's shadow looming over him for so long that he didn't even know what it felt like to be just himself anymore. "What if I don't have any strength?"

Lena almost laughed, but there was no mockery in it. "If you didn't have strength, you wouldn't be here, day after day, getting punched in the face by life and still showing up. That's the definition of strength, even if you can't see it."

Jack didn't know how to respond. He felt exposed, like she could see all the cracks in his armor. "I guess… I guess I just don't feel it yet."

"You don't have to feel it yet," Lena said, her voice gentle. "You trust the process. Trust that every miserable push-up, every aching run, every time you hit that bag—it's doing something. You may not see it, but it's happening."

Jack swallowed the lump in his throat. "But what if I fail?"

Lena leaned in, her expression serious. "Failing isn't falling down, Jack. It's not getting back up. Everyone here has fallen, more times than they can count. Everyone. The difference is, the ones who get stronger are the ones who keep getting back up. You've got grit; I can see that. Now you need to use it."

He looked at his bruised knuckles, the marks from hours spent pounding on bags, and sighed. "I'm just scared it won't be enough."

"Scared?" Lena smirked. "Good. Fear's a hell of a motivator. You just have to make sure it pushes you forward, not backward. You're not here to be Ethan. You're here to be Jack, whatever that means. Own that. Take it one punch, one step, one damn breath at a time."

Jack hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. I'll keep trying."

"Trying's a start," Lena said, cracking a rare smile. "Now, let's do it right. Position your feet better. Stay grounded."

Jack took a stance, adjusting his feet as she instructed. He swung again, this time more balanced, more focused. The bag swung back, and even though it wasn't a perfect punch, it was better.

"That's it," Lena said, approval lighting her eyes. "Progress. Keep your weight centered. Hit it again."

Jack exhaled, lined up his next shot, and hit the bag harder. His muscles still ached, but his mind felt a little clearer. The doubts were still there, lurking like shadows, but they didn't seem as overwhelming.

"How do you do it?" Jack asked, glancing at Lena between hits. "How do you stay so… strong?"

Lena's smile turned bittersweet. "I wasn't always strong, kid. I went through my own hell. Fighting saved me, gave me a reason to keep pushing when I had none. You'll find yours, too. But for now, focus. Each hit counts."

Jack swung again, feeling the words echo in his chest. He could hear Ethan's laughter in his mind, the memory so vivid it almost hurt. But instead of backing away from the pain, he embraced it. Used it. His fists met the bag with renewed purpose, his breaths coming out steady and fierce.

"That's it," Lena encouraged. "That's the fight in you. Don't let it die out."

He pounded the bag harder, his heart racing, each punch a release of the fear, anger, and sorrow he'd been carrying for so long. His body was tired, but his mind? For the first time in weeks, it felt… alive. Focused.

"Good," Lena said, stepping back. "We'll work on your technique later. For now, just keep that fire going."

Jack stopped, hands on his knees, panting. But a grin spread across his face, exhausted yet strangely satisfied. "Thanks, Lena."

She shrugged. "Don't thank me yet. Tomorrow, you'll hate me when you can't move."

Jack laughed, breathless but genuine. "I'll be here. Promise."

Lena's eyes sparkled with something Jack hadn't expected: pride. "Good. Because you're not doing this for me. You're doing it for yourself."

Jack met her gaze, a flicker of hope starting to bloom amidst the pain. "Yeah… for myself."

Lena's smirk widened. "Now, get some water before you pass out. You've still got rounds to go."

Jack straightened up, feeling just a bit lighter. "You got it, Coach."

And as he walked over to the water station, drenched in sweat but smiling, he knew that maybe—just maybe—he could find his own strength, one punch at a time.