I didn't know where I was going. One foot followed the other and if my right foot stepped over one line in the sidewalk, my left foot had to step over the next line. I didn't know why, something in my brain compelled me to follow the pattern I'd set or it'd piss me off and I'd want to lash out, so I stepped-stepped-line with my right foot, and then I stepped-stepped-line with my left foot. I stepped-stepped-lined myself across Domino City, strangely calm as long as I could follow my own little pattern and I didn't have to look at anyone else.

I didn't mind the people on the sidewalks and in the stores. I just wanted them to stay away from me. I heard them talking on their cell phones while kids screamed and played. Sparrows groomed themselves on elm branches or sang. I liked the birds much more than the people because I knew they'd leave me alone. I never had a chance to go on a walk before, never had legs of my own to stroll across pavement, or run through grass, or stomp in mud. Would that have made a difference? Would I have killed people if Marik had played outside as a child? Then I realized the answer was no- I wouldn't have hurt anyone because I wouldn't have existed.

Suddenly, I felt sorry for Marik – for all the pain we both shared – and I hated the feeling. Empathy for Bakura was bad enough, but Marik? I'd rather get a second initiation carved into my chest than identify with my other half, but when did the gods ever give a damn about what I wanted?

Two men argued ahead of me. Their conversation invaded my thoughts.

"Dammit, Ichenu, I already have the fight booked. What am I supposed to do?"

"Sorry boss. She said if I didn't quit today then she's gone."

"But isn't that why you're fighting? To buy her a ring?"

"Ring won't do any good without a finger to put it on. See ya later, boss." The younger man walked away, leaving the older man by himself.

The older man kicked at the pavement. "Dammit."

I walked past him and he grabbed my shoulder. My instinct was to snap his neck. I held my breath and forced my hand to stay at my sides, waiting to see what he wanted before I decided how to deal with him.

"Hey buddy, you look strong, want to make some money?"

I did want a job. I couldn't free-load off of Ryou for the rest of my life.

"Not if it's illegal," I said. I didn't really care if it was illegal or not, but I thought Ryou would be sad if I got into trouble, and I'd much rather make him happy. In fact, I had the oddest urge to do damn near anything to make him happy.

The man in front of me grinned. His wore his gray-streaked, shiny black hair pulled back into a ponytail and had both a goatee and a mustache. He reminded me of a fox.

"No, no, don't worry," he said. "Nothing like that. I have a fight booked in two months, a boxing match. It's legit, not one of those shady street fights in a back alley somewhere. That guy that just left was my fighter and he turned tail on me. Whaddya say?"

Was this guy crazy? He was just going to pull a stranger off the streets and ask if he wanted to fight? Even I never grabbed random victims off the street to Duel against. Everyone I killed challenged me. Well, there was that one medic in Rishid's room, but he was in my way so he didn't count.

I frowned at him. "I have anger management problems. Boxing probably isn't for me."

"Boxing is perfect for you. It'll teach you discipline and give you an outlet."

I tilted my head to the side. "Maybe it would, but two months is a long time to wait for a paycheck. I need a regular job."

He growled, frustrated, and looked back up at me. "Look. How 'bout this, come to the gym and clean it up in the mornings, help me train the other boxers in the afternoon, and I'll pay you for the work. It won't be a lot of money, but if you want more you can always take extra fights – there's good money in that."

I shrugged. "Why the hell not? I'll do it."

He looked as surprised at my answer as I felt. "Really? Great. C'mon, let's get you into some gear and see what I have to work with."

He grabbed my hand and dragged me into the building behind him. "Not that I don't have faith in you, but two months really isn't enough time to train for a bout, so I don't expect you to win, but hopefully we'll give them a good show."

I looked around. Free weights and squat racks filled half the room. The other half held several bags and fighting dummies and a boxing ring with red, blue, and white ropes strung around it. He wrapped my hands and gave me gloves and a pair of sweatpants with his facility's logo printed up the side (a fox icon and GYM spelled in a large, block print).

The tomb keepers were created to protect the Pharaoh's tomb and his secrets with our lives. Clan-created martial arts were part of our culture, so I already knew the basics. Don't waste your movements, body turned, the force of the blows comes from the power in your hips, and never take your eyes away from the enemy. Read him. Predict his moves. Counter. Attack when the opportunity appears. After twenty minutes we stopped.

The older man grinned. "Yes. Hell yes, maybe you do stand a chance. It's like you were sent here by the gods."

He had no idea.

"Okay, let's give you some mitts."

We took off the gloves and he handed me some round pads with straps on the back to hold. I shrugged and hooked my hands into the holdings at looked at the crazy old man – who still grinned like everything in the world, even the worst of it, was amusing to him.

He nodded when I had the mitts equipped. "I just want to make sure you hold them correctly. When we're practicing with the other fighters as part of your regular job, you'll want to make sure you hold them loose and relaxed. If you're too tight for two hours worth of practice, then you're going to hurt yourself and I'm boned when our fight comes up."

Our fight. What an asshole. He wasn't going to be in the ring with me.

He punched the pads and I had to stand there and hold them up to give him a target. I didn't like holding the mitts. He jabbed and hooked at them – at me – and I wanted to counter. I needed to fight back – to punch, to kick, to do anything but stand there. I didn't trust him not to hit me.

Fuck! I couldn't do it!

I couldn't stand there and do nothing.

"Hey, calm down." He stopped and patted my arms and shoulders with his gloved hands. I was so lost in my own mind that I didn't register the touch as he tried to correct my form. He chatted in my ear while everything spun around me in whorls.

"This is what I'm talking about. You're going to get hurt if you're that tense. Let's try again."

He snapped a few light jabs into the pads. Each one grated on my nerves until a left cross broke my resolve and I slapped him with the mitt in my right hand.

"What the fuck?" He swiped the back of his arm across his nostrils and stared at the thin streak of blood.

"Fuck this . . ." I shook my head. "Fuck it. I can't." Part of me demanded I stay calm and act 'normal', that's what I wanted to do, I was trying to be human now, and I knew I was fucking up, but panic clenched my lungs in a vice and every instinct in my psyche shrieked for me to either punch him or run. It didn't matter which. I just needed to move, to act, to do.

Anything, do anything, just don't stand there while he walks towards you with a knife!

And for a second I wasn't sure if I were nineteen or ten, if I were Kek or Marik. I looked up at the older guy. The same age, they looked the same age, only this geezer's hair was black – black, not sunny like mine, black – he wasn't, he wasn't, he wasn't the same . . .

He wasn't grinning anymore. His face had dropped into a neutral line. "The mitts are the target."

"I don't care. It looks like you're going to hit me." I heard my voice and my breath, but they felt far away. My mind tried to push it all away, a defect inherited from Marik. I wanted to quit, but at the same time I didn't. I wanted to hold the stupid, fucking mitts – if for no other reason than because I knew Marik would quit, so I couldn't.

The line dropped down into a frown. He studied me. "You didn't mind getting hit when we sparred."

"I could hit you back then," I growled at the floor, my jaw ached from grinding my teeth.

His grin slipped back onto his face as he rested his gloved hands on his hips. "At least now we know what to practice." He gestured with his gloves. "C'mon. Mitts up."

"I think I'm done for today."

I wanted get through my second day in my own body without committing homicide.

"Like hell you are. This is on the clock job training. Get those mitts up because you're not done 'till two o' clock when Ichenu's session would have been over."

"Whatever. Your funeral, old man." I held the mitts in front of me, but I'd already made up my mind to hit the prick upside the head at his first punch.

"Breath."

"What?"

"Breath."

"I am fucking breathing."

"No, you're holding your breath. I can see the veins in your forehead and neck. Your blood pressure is high and I bet you can feel the cortisol drowning your brain right now. Fight or flight, right? But you're no runner, oh no." He shook his head, gesturing with his gloves again. "You want to punch me right now. I can see it. You're a fighter."

I smirked. "Isn't that what you wanted? A fighter?"

His grin got big. I didn't think it could get any bigger, but there it was, stretched across his face like we were pals. He tapped his temple. "The hardest part of fighting is this. Right now you have no control. You're too weak."

"I'm not weak."

"Biceps don't make you strong." He tapped his head again.

I was pissed. I held the mitts up for him, focused on my breath, and relaxed my arms. Just to fucking show him. I was going to show him I wasn't weak and then I was going to burn his gym to the ground.

He nodded. His grin vanished and his expression grew serious. "Good. Let's see how strong you really are."

He barraged me with blows three times more aggressive than before. I admired his skill, but could only tolerate fists in my face for a few minutes before my control snapped. I clocked him upside the head. He went down easy as dropping a rock to the dirt.

He held the side of his head. "Christ, kid."

I pulled the mitts off my hands and threw them at his head. "I quit."

"Like a bitch?" He pushed himself up to stare me in the face.

I stared back at him. His eyes were dark brown, like Ryou's, but his complexion was muddy and deep-

set lines sank into the edged of his mouth and eyes.

"Fuck you." I turned to leave.

He jumped into my way. "Yeah, a bitch. But if you ever want to be a man instead of a bitch then you know where I am."

Yeah, I knew where he was, and I knew where he was about to be if he didn't get out of my face – a shallow grave. My hands twitched. I reached for the Rod on reflex. When my fingers brushed over my sweat pants instead of gold I clenched my hand into a fist. I marched up to him, wishing I had a switchblade, but there were kettlebells and elastic bands and, hell, I could drag him to the urinal and bash his brains against the porcelain. That'd be classy.

He wasn't afraid; he didn't understand yet. "You did better than I thought you would, actually. I think we're done with the mitts for today."

"You're damn, fucking straight we're done." I grinned, my right eye twitched.

"Time for speed and agility drills."

I laughed. How could I not? He stood there and looked at me like it was another day at his gym. He should have known something was wrong. He should have cowered away. He should have begged for me to leave. That's what happened when I got angry. People felt it and they backed down, but the old man was senile or something and unlaced his gloves like he'd live long enough to take them off his hands.

I leaned forward a bit. "I'm going to kill you now. You should run."

I stood and waited for him to bolt. I didn't know why I warned him or gave him a chance to escape. Perhaps because I really did want to be human. I tried so hard to hold those mitts, but all it managed to do was make me angry enough to singe my vision with a black border. I really wanted to be human, but something in me worried that I was just Marik's shadow and would be forever. It was better for me to kill someone now and let the police throw me in jail, before I ruined Ryou, hell, before I ruined Bakura. His Ib balanced on the scale. I'd only drag him down with. How much time could he spend with me before I destroyed any chance he'd ever have at seeing his family and village again?

The old geezer smiled at me. The expression was warm and genuine like Ryou's smile (although his smile didn't make my heart dance in my ribcage like Ryou's smile always did); however, his smile did make it hard for me to strangle him. It was odd, but I really respected the old man. He didn't look at me like I was a monster, nor was he afraid. I wondered what he saw, when he smiled at me. His face was almost nostalgic. He pointed to the mat below us.

"We'll start with burpees. I'll demonstrate." He dropped to the floor, kicked back his feet, did a push-up, and jumped back to his feet to finish with a jumping jack. He repeated the action and I watched him, dumbfounded.

I was going to kill him and he acted like it was no big deal.

He couldn't be that oblivious . . . why the hell . . .

"Well? I ain't doing this to get younger. C'mon kid, burpees."

I had to make a decision – kill him or do what he said. In a way, he was gifting me with a second chance to try my hand at humanity. I couldn't even remember why I was so pissed off. Yeah, the blows bothered me and I didn't want to stand still, but maybe I had acted like a bitch about it?

Shit. Maybe I was weak.

Something in my chest wanted to fight my weaknesses.

I copied him, doing burpee after burpee after burpee. He went to the edge of the ring and hit a timer. After 30 seconds the machine beeped and we did squats and then we repeated the series. After a few minutes we switched to lunges and jumping jacks, then burpees and mountain climbers. He never stopped except for a single minute when he grabbed towels and water bottles for us to use. Finally, he made me hold plank until my arms shook.

"So . . ." he sat on the mat. I still held plank. The timer beeped after each 30 seconds, but he didn't tell me to stop so I ignored my arms and blinked sweat out of my eyes. He took a sip of water. "Was it your old man?"

"What?" I faltered but managed to keep from falling. I hadn't expected the question.

"Someone used to hit you, otherwise you wouldn't have gotten so pissed off when you had to stand there without being able to defend yourself."

I stared at the mat. "Doesn't matter. He's dead."

"Y'know, lots of fighters train here, and they all have a story like that, but I haven't seen anyone as angry as you since . . ." he broke off to chuckle. "Well, since I was sixteen."

I swallowed. My arms were wobbling hard, but I made them stay lifted. I didn't want to be weak.

He took another sip of water. "Y'know, you have two options. Control your mind or be controlled by your mind."

Again, he had no fucking idea.

My left elbow hit the mat. I grunted, trying to push myself back up but there was nothing left for me to give. My arms collapsed as soon as I put my body weight back on them.

He grinned. "Muscle failure. Good job. We're done."

I wasn't sure how I made it to the locker room. My arms and legs shook. When I was back in denim I saw him standing near the cash register. He looked up at me. "I forgot to ask, what's your name, kid?"

"Kek."

"Kek?"

I nodded. "What's your name, old man?"

"Kyubi." He handed me some cash. "Nine o'clock tomorrow?"

I stuffed the money in my pocket. Shit, I liked this guy. He gave absolutely zero fucks.

"You . . . still want me to work for you?"

"Are you kidding? I haven't had this much fun training in years."

Well, If he was dumb enough to put up with me, then why should I argue? "Yeah, nine."

As I walked out the door a strange excitement overtook me. I wanted to tell Ryou I got a job. I got a job and I somehow managed not to fuck it up, although I came close. And I didn't kill the old man – I was angry and I didn't kill him – maybe I was more than a shadow, and maybe I wouldn't destroy everything I touched.