CHAPTER SEVEN: THE DOJO

The small dojo was easy to miss, tucked between a shuttered laundromat and a pawn shop with a broken neon sign. The faded wooden sign above the entrance read Grant’s Gym, the letters barely visible against the peeling paint. The building didn’t look like much—bricks blackened by time, a single grimy window revealing little of the inside—but the faint sounds of rhythmic thuds, grunts, and the steady thwack of a speed bag being worked caught her attention. It was oddly comforting.

She had stumbled across the place while wandering Gotham’s East End, her feet aching and her mind racing with thoughts of what she needed to do to become strong again. She didn’t know what drew her in—curiosity, desperation, or maybe a flicker of hope—but, before she could second-guess herself, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The interior was modest and worn down by time and hard use, smelling faintly of sweat, leather, and liniment—a combination that immediately transported her back to memories of gym classes in Brockton Bay. Faded posters of championship fights adorned the walls, while a few battered punching bags hung from the ceiling. In the corner, dusty display cases held cracked trophies and aging championship belts, their faded lustre hinting at the gym’s glory days.

At the center of it all was a man working a heavy bag. He was older—his hair streaked with grey, shoulders broad, and a solid build—but his every motion spoke of years of experience, his movements fluid and punches sharp. Taylor watched as he threw a quick combination, the sound of his gloves striking the bag echoing through the room.

“You here to stare, or are you looking for something?” the man asked without turning, his gruff (but not unkind) voice cutting through the room like a jab.

Taylor hesitated before stepping further into the gym. “I’m… looking for a place to train.”

The man stopped mid-punch and turned to face her, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. “You don’t look like a fighter,” he said, crossing his arms.

“I am,” Taylor replied, meeting his gaze evenly. “But I want to relearn.”

The man tilted his head, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You want to ‘relearn,’ huh? You got money?”

Taylor swallowed. “Not yet. But I can work. I’ll clean, fix things… whatever you need.”

For a moment, the man said nothing, just looking her over. Then he sighed and waved her over. “Name’s Ted. Ted Grant. People around here call me Wildcat. What’s yours?”

“Taylor,” she said, keeping her answer short.

“Well, Taylor,” Ted said, grabbing a pair of frayed gloves from a nearby shelf, “if you want to train here, you’re gonna have to prove you’re serious. First rule: no freeloaders. Second rule: if you waste my time, you’re out. Got it?”

Taylor nodded quickly, a flicker of determination sparking in her chest. “Got it.”

Ted handed her the gloves and motioned toward the ring in the center of the gym. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

. . . . .

The first session was brutal.

Taylor barely made it through Ted’s warm-up—jumping rope, shadowboxing, and basic footwork drills that left her legs trembling. The muscle memory she’d once relied on was gone, and she hated how uncoordinated it made her feel.

Ted, to his credit, didn’t mock her or push her too hard. But his corrections and blunt observations stung.

“Stop overthinking,” he said after she nearly tripped over her own feet during a footwork drill. “You’re moving like you’ve got two left feet. Relax.”

Taylor bit back her frustration, her breath coming in labored gasps as she adjusted her footing.

When they moved to basic punches, Ted’s keen eye caught every mistake. “Keep your hands up. Your jab’s weak. And stop telegraphing your cross—any halfway decent fighter would see it coming a mile away.”

But despite his gruff demeanor, there was no malice in his words—only a quiet expectation that she would push herself, that she wouldn’t give up.

By the time they finished, Taylor’s arms felt like lead, her legs barely able to support her weight. She slumped against the ropes, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.

“You’re sloppy,” Ted said, tossing her a towel. “But you’ve got heart. That’s a start.”

Taylor wiped the sweat from her face, her fingers shaking as she gripped the towel. “Thanks,” she muttered, unsure if it was meant as a compliment or not.

Ted leaned against the ropes, watching her with a critical eye. “What’s your story, kid? I didn't believe you at first, but you really don’t move like someone who’s never fought before. You’ve got instincts, but they’re all over the place—like your brain knows what to do, but your body has forgotten.”

Taylor hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I… had an accident. It messed me up pretty bad. I’m trying to get back what I lost.”

Ted’s expression softened slightly, though his tone remained the same. “Fair enough. But if you want to train here, you’ve got to leave the excuses at the door. No one cares where you came from or what you’ve been through. The only thing that matters is whether you’re willing to put in the work.”

“I am,” Taylor said firmly.

Ted nodded, handing her a water bottle, which she accepted gratefully. “Good. Show up tomorrow, same time. Don’t be late.”

That night, as Taylor lay on the thin mattress in her room—the ache in her muscles fading with every breath she took—there was a sense of satisfaction within her, something other than despair and loss.

Ted’s words echoed in her mind: You’ve got heart. That’s a start.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Tomorrow, she would go back. She would keep going, keep pushing, until she found the strength she had lost. Because for all her doubts and failures, Taylor Hebert wasn’t done fighting. Not yet.