Chapter Text

Chapter 1

As a little girl, your world didn’t revolve around the house—it revolved around the gym.

J.C. Gimnasio wasn’t just a boxing gym. It was home, a sanctuary, and where you would always find your father working—morning, noon, and night.

You’d come straight from school, tossing your backpack onto an old wooden bench near the lockers, barely stopping to change out of your uniform before diving into your chores. You’d sweep the floor, clean the equipment, and help keep things in order before settling down with your schoolbooks at the old office desk in the corner.

But there was one part of the gym that always called to you, even before you truly understood what it meant.

The ring.

Whenever it was empty, whenever there were no fighters sparring inside, you would climb between the ropes with all the excitement of a child stepping onto a playground.

You’d jump, dance, and spin around the canvas, the radio playing old boleros and lively cumbias in the background. The echo of your small feet bouncing against the ring floor filled the quiet gym, your giggles mixing with the crackling radio waves.

Sometimes, you'd pretend you were in a telenovela, dramatically throwing your arms up, or acting out scenes from one of Lisa’s favorite love stories. Other times, you'd mimic the boxers you watched, shadowboxing in awkward, uncoordinated movements.

You had no idea back then—this ring would become your whole life.

Your father’s gym had once been a run-down Catholic church, abandoned and forgotten, the walls crumbling, the floors stained with time.

But he had seen something in it.

With hard work and determination, he turned it into a sanctuary for young boxers, a place for the kids on the streets to find discipline, purpose, and guidance through boxing.
This is the place where he was going to reform what it means to have Machismo.

That was why he never changed the name—J.C. Gimnasio, standing for Jesus Cristo.

To this day, there was a small shrine in the corner, the candles always burning, the soft glow of La Virgen de Guadalupe watching over the fighters who stepped into the ring.

It wasn’t just a boxing gym.

It was a place of hope, faith, and second chances.

And the roles of the two sisters within this sacred space were clear.

Y/N & Lisa – Two Sides of the Same Coin

You were the fighter’s corner—the one who knew how to stop the bleeding, read the rhythm of a match, and push fighters to keep going when they wanted to give up.

Lisa was the soul of the gym—the one who kept the faith alive, who reminded them that boxing wasn’t just about fists, but about spirit, resilience, and redemption.

You worked beside the ring, learning how to support fighters physically.

Lisa tended to the altar, much like your mother had done before, making sure that every boxer who stepped into the ring had a place to pray, a place to find peace before and after their battles.

Both were vital to the heart of J.C. Gimnasio.

And that’s what made you unstoppable together.

Your First Encounter with Ricardo Martinez – Understanding Your Father’s Pride

Your first memory of Ricardo Martinez wasn’t one of recognition, but of curiosity.

You were too young to understand who he would become, but even then, something about him stood out.

It was late in the afternoon, and the golden hues of the sunset streamed through J.C. Gimnasio’s windows, casting long shadows across the floor. Your father stood by the ropes, arms crossed, watching a young Ricardo Martinez spar—his movements precise, fluid, devastatingly sharp.

Beside him, Bill Stewart, the foreigner with sharp eyes and a cigarette in his hand, observed with quiet intensity.

You had been jumping around in the ring, too small to train but too restless to sit still. But when your father whistled you over, you dropped what you were doing and ran to his side.

Following his gaze, you looked at the young fighter in the ring—barely a man yet, but already moving like a champion in the making. Even as a child, you could tell he was different.

He wasn’t just throwing punches—he was calculating, moving like he already knew the outcome of every exchange before it happened. His expression was unreadable.

"Is he gonna be a boxer, daddy?" you asked, turning to your father.

Your father’s gaze never left the ring, but a small, proud smile tugged at his lips.

"Sí, mija. He’s going to be a world champion someday."

You scrunched your nose, unimpressed. "How do you know?"

For the first time, your father leaned down to your level, looking you straight in the eyes.

"Keep your eyes open, Y/N."

You hadn’t understood what he meant at the time. But you nodded anyway, watching as Bill Stewart murmured instructions to Ricardo, watching as the boy absorbed every word like scripture.

It wasn’t until years later that you finally understood.

Your Path – Earning Your Place in Boxing

You had never been the kind of person to force yourself into things you didn’t love.

Your father saw it early—you only put effort into what truly interested you. You weren’t one to follow the conventional path, to do things just because they were expected. That itself wasn’t always a flaw. If anything, it meant that when you wanted something, you went after it with everything you had.

And what you wanted was boxing.

But wanting something wasn’t enough.

"You can’t be in that ring, mija." He had told you that from the start, voice firm but not unkind. "Not my daughter."

That should have been the end of it.

But he also wasn’t blind. He saw how you watched the fighters train, memorized their footwork, took mental notes of their movements.

So instead of pushing you away, he gave you a different kind of test.

"If you want to stay in this world, you need to make yourself useful."

That was the deal.

Not as a fighter. But as something else.

Then, your father set you on an even harder path—languages.

"If you can’t fight, you help those who do. Learn to speak to the world, and you’ll have a place in it."

At first, you resisted. Studying never came naturally to you, and memorizing vocabulary felt nothing like throwing a punch. But your father had anticipated that.

"You’ll learn English—that’s non-negotiable. But I’ll let you pick your second language."

That got your attention.

You perked up immediately. If you had to do this, at least you had some say in the matter.

And you didn’t even hesitate before saying:

"Japanese."

Lisa had gasped in delight. Your mother had sighed. Your father had rubbed his temples, muttering about why his daughter couldn’t just pick French or Italian like a normal girl.

But you had your reasons.

Japanese anime aired regularly in Mexico in Spanish dubs, and you and Lisa grew up watching shows like Candy Candy and Captain Tsubasa on TV. You loved the drama, the intensity, the way the characters spoke with passion and fire.

Your father brought imported VHS tapes of Candy Candy. The problem? These weren’t dubbed in Spanish. They were in Japanese.

No subtitles. No translation.

You hated not understanding.

You’d sit there, rewinding the same scenes over and over, listening carefully, trying to piece together meaning from nothing but tone and body language.

You weren’t just fascinated—you were frustrated.

"I want to understand this," you muttered one day, rewinding a dramatic scene for the fourth time.

Lisa nudged you. "Then learn it."

So you did.

If learning Japanese helped you in boxing, then two birds, one stone.

Your father hadn’t been convinced right away, but he let you prove yourself. If you were serious about this, you had to work for it. No shortcuts. No exceptions.

And so, you spent years pushing yourself—not as a fighter, but as something just as valuable.

A translator. A strategist. A cutman.

A person that the world of boxing couldn’t ignore.

Shadowing Bill Stewart – Learning the Game Behind the Game

Studying languages was one thing.

But learning how to apply it in boxing? That was something else entirely.

Your father had connections in the boxing world, and he called in a favor from an old friend—Bill Stewart, one of the most respected cornermen and strategists in the game. The head coach of J.C. Gimnasio.

If you were serious about staying in boxing, you would shadow Bill, watching and learning from the best.

"He’ll teach you what you need to know," your father had said. "If you can keep up, then maybe you belong here after all."

That was how your training started—not with gloves, but with tape, gauze, and hours spent listening to Bill break down fights in English.

Bill wasn’t the easiest man to approach, but he had one weakness.

Bribes.

You, being the resourceful little troublemaker you were, exploited that weakness immediately.

You started bringing him bottles of soda, sometimes snacks, and dropping them next to his chair during sparring sessions.

Bill would grumble at first, but he never shooed you away.

Eventually, he started talking to you.

At first, it was small things—little observations during a sparring match. “Watch his footwork—he’s dropping his left.” Or, “If you see a guy breathing through his mouth too much, he’s about to gas out.”

You absorbed it all like a sponge.

Over time, you learned how to read fighters, how to listen to a coach’s instructions and translate them in real-time, how to watch a fight not just as a spectator, but as someone who could analyze what was happening.

Bill never made things easy for you, but he respected that you never backed down.

If you were strong enough to handle watching brutal sparring sessions, then you were strong enough to learn.

Prelude: A Challenger’s Hunger
April 1992

The scent of fresh-brewed coffee and ink-stained newspapers filled the morning air as Bill Stewart folded a sports article in half and slid it across the table.

"Read that for me, kid."

Still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you raised a brow before taking the paper. You skimmed the headline, then the text beneath it.

Your expression tightened.

"Eiji Date vacates Japanese Featherweight Title."

You scanned further.

Date—Japan’s former champion, a name familiar to boxing historians, had relinquished his title. There was no mention of why. But it didn’t take much to figure it out.

Your fingers tapped absently against the paper as you pieced it together.

Eiji Date.

That was the man who fought Ricardo in his second-ever WBA Featherweight World Title defense.

Your stomach twisted. Lisa had just told you that Alfredo wanted to challenge Ricardo too.

Now, someone from Japan was clearing their own path—heading toward the very same goal.

You exhaled. A conflict of interest.

You handed the article back to Bill.

"Think he’s gonna challenge Ricardo again?"

Bill sipped his coffee, shrugging.

"You said it, not me."

Your lips pressed into a thin line.

This wasn’t a coincidence. People didn’t just give up their belt for no reason—not unless they were hungry for something bigger.

You already knew the answer.

Bill must’ve seen the look in your eyes because he leaned back, folding his arms across his chest.

"Eiji Date," he said, as if the name alone carried weight. " He’s got that kind of hunger, kid. Fighters who want a rematch don’t come back weaker—they come back with something to prove. Japanese boxers make an impression on our fighters. Eiji Date was a hothead. Now he’s a samurai."

You absorbed that.

A samurai.

Date wasn’t just looking for another fight. He was looking to redeem himself.

You wanted to know what that kind of hunger could do to a person.

"I’ll go to Japan," you said suddenly, pushing off the counter. "I want to hear it from him myself."

Bill raised a brow but didn’t argue.

He’d seen how restless you had been lately, how badly you wanted to understand the men who stepped into the ring with Ricardo.

"You sure about that?" he asked.

You nodded.

But before he could sip his coffee again, Bill let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

"And while you’re at it," he added, "keep your eyes open for Japan’s next champion, too."

You tried to hide your excitement.

Bill gestured toward the paper.

"If Date isn’t holding the belt anymore, someone else is gonna take that spot. See if their new champion has what it takes, too."

You rolled your eyes. Being on Ricardo’s team, witnessing his bouts firsthand, you truly wondered if there was any contender that could prove him touchable. Now Japan would try giving their previous champion a second shot.

"Tch. You think I’m gonna just show up and run into the guy?"

Bill just smirked knowingly. He'd been training you most of your life for a project just like this—hell, you probably already started reaching out to booking agents.

"Stranger things have happened, chaparrita."