​Chapter Three: Pain O’clock

My eyes snap open as the door slams against the wall, making my heart leap to my throat.

Uncle Max is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, holding a whistle and a stopwatch like he's about to invade a country.

“It’s 4:45. Training starts in fifteen minutes.”

I blink at him, completely disoriented. “Training for what? The Hunger Games?”

He doesn’t answer. Just tosses a neatly folded set of black workout clothes and worn-in sneakers onto the bed.

“You have five minutes to get dressed. Ten to show up outside.”

“You’re joking.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Would you prefer I dump a bucket of water on you next time?”

I scowl. “You wouldn’t.”

His deadpan expression says otherwise.

“This is child cruelty,” I say with a groan, rolling out of the bed.

Uncle Max gives the faintest ghost of a smirk — blink and you'd miss it — then turns and walks away, calling over his shoulder, “Outside. 5 O’clock sharp. No excuses. You’ll want to layer, it’s cold out.”

I look at the clothes: a black T-shirt, workout pants, socks, even hair ties. They’re my size. Comfortable. Soft. Like he actually thought about what I’d need. 

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The backyard looks like something out of a bootcamp.

Punching bag. Obstacle course. A rope hanging from a tall beam. A stack of tires.
It’s barely past 5:00 AM, but everything is drenched in fog and misery.

Uncle Max stands in the middle of it all, arms crossed, looking like a drill sergeant from a movie.

“You’re one minute early,” he says. “Good.”

I blink. Was that a… compliment…?

Before I can figure it out, he blows the whistle.

“Warm-up. five laps. Go.”

I blink at him. “Five? I can’t even run one.”

“Then you’re about to set a personal record.”

I groan but start jogging. “You know I’m a hacker, right? We sit. We code. We don’t sprint before sunrise.”

“Then adapt.”

Half a lap in, I’m regretting every cookie I’ve ever eaten. By lap three, my lungs feel like they collapsing in protest.

Uncle Max jogs alongside me for a few seconds — not saying anything, just… matching my pace. Quiet. Steady. Watching.

By the time I stumble across the imaginary finish line, I’m 90% sweat, 10% regret, and 100% sure I’m dying. I bend over, hands on my knees, gasping like a fish flung onto a dock.

Uncle Max doesn’t give me time to recover.

“Planks. One minute. Then sit-ups. Push-ups. Mountain climbers.”

I squint up at him. “You mean now?”

“No, next week,” he says dryly. “Yes, now.”

I flop onto the grass, arms trembling, every muscle already on strike. The ground is cold, damp, and somehow comforting. If I stay here long enough, maybe I’ll become moss.

Still, I force myself into position. My whole-body shakes.

Uncle Max kneels beside me—not close, but close enough that I feel the weight of his presence.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he says quietly.

I glance at him. He’s not smirking. Not teasing.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I grit my teeth and hold the plank, every second dragging like an hour.

By the time we finish the set, my hoodie’s soaked through, and my legs feel heavy and numb, barely holding me up. But I did it. I actually did it.

Uncle Max nods once. “You did better than I expected.”

I blink at him. “Was that… a compliment?”

He shrugs. “You didn’t pass out. That’s a start.”

I try not to smile.

Try very hard.

UPDATED VERSION OF THE CHAPTER:

My eyes snap open as the door slams against the wall, making my heart leap to my throat.

Uncle Max is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, holding a whistle and a stopwatch like he's about to invade a country.

“It’s 4:45. Training starts in fifteen minutes.”

I blink at him, completely disoriented. “Training for what? The Hunger Games?”

He doesn’t answer. Just tosses a neatly folded set of black workout clothes and worn-in sneakers onto the bed.

“You have five minutes to get dressed. Ten to show up outside.”

“You’re joking.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Would you prefer I dump a bucket of water on you next time?”

I scowl. “You wouldn’t.”

His deadpan expression says otherwise.

“This is child cruelty,” I say with a groan, rolling out of bed.

Uncle Max gives the faintest ghost of a smirk — blink and you'd miss it — then turns and walks away, calling over his shoulder, “Outside. 5 O’clock sharp. No excuses. You’ll want to layer, it’s cold out.”

I look at the clothes: a black T-shirt, workout pants, socks, even hair ties. They’re my size. Comfortable. Soft. Like he actually thought about what I’d need.

***

The backyard looks like something out of a bootcamp.

A punching bag hanging from a tree. An obstacle course. A rope hanging from a tall beam. A stack of tires.
It’s barely past 5:00 AM, but everything is drenched in fog and misery.

Uncle Max stands in the middle of it all, arms crossed, looking like a drill sergeant from a movie.

“You’re one minute early,” he says. “Good.”

I blink. Was that... a compliment...?

Before I can figure it out, he blows the whistle.

“Warm-up. Five laps. Go.”

I blink at him. “Five? I can’t even run one.”

“Then you’re about to set a personal record.”

I groan but start jogging. “You know I’m a hacker, right? We sit. We code. We don’t sprint before sunrise.”

“Then adapt.”

Half a lap in, I’m regretting every cookie I’ve ever eaten. By lap three, my lungs feel like they are collapsing in protest.

Uncle Max jogs alongside me for a few seconds — not saying anything, just… matching my pace. Quiet. Steady. Watching.

By the time I stumble across the imaginary finish line, I’m 90% sweat, 10% regret, and 100% sure I’m dying. I bend over, hands on my knees, gasping like a fish flung onto a dock.

Uncle Max doesn’t give me time to recover.

“Planks. One minute. Then 25 sit-ups. 20 push-ups. And 20 mountain climbers.”

I squint up at him. “You mean now?”

“No, next week,” he says dryly. “Yes, now.”

I flop onto the grass, arms trembling, every muscle already on strike. The ground is cold, damp, and somehow comforting. If I stay here long enough, maybe I’ll become moss.

Still, I force myself into position. My whole-body shakes.

Uncle Max kneels beside me—not close, but close enough that I feel the weight of his presence.

By the time we finish the set, my hoodie’s soaked through, and my legs feel heavy and numb, barely holding me up. But I did it. I actually did it.

Uncle Max nods once. “Better than I expected.”

I raise an eyebrow and that “Thanks for the confidence” I say sarcastically.