New York City, 1902

Bolt's Boarding House

Bolt shoved away from the wall he'd been leaning against. He wasn't going to spend his ten hours moping on a roof, that was for sure. He was going to do what he could to end this before it he was pulled any deeper into it. Or, really, before Hannah was pulled any deeper into it. He practically ran down the fire escape, his shoes clanking loudly on the iron steps. He was on the street, and turned towards Brooklyn, before he knew it, a steely resolve evident in his brown eyes.

Bolt walked quickly. Now that he'd finally decided to do something, he couldn't stand going slowly. He was mentally kicking himself as he went for taking so long to make a move as it was. If he'd just gone and dealt with it in the beginning, Hannah wouldn't have had a brick thrown at her, and she wouldn't be doubting him right now. He shook his head to clear it of the nagging thoughts, knowing he was going to have to have his mind on his task if he was going to live through the next week.

There was only one thing he could think to do. One person who might know more about this then he did, and he had every intention of finding him. And giving him a good look at the outside of his fist if he had anything to do with the brick flying through the window of Avery's. Bolt rubbed his hand over his eyes, his severe lack of sleep starting to get to him.

He stepped off the Brooklyn Bridge, and immediately lost himself in the memories, forgetting to heed his own warning.

New York City, 1897

Lower Manhattan,

The Glass Factory

"The ring?" Bolt questioned, feeling slightly like a parrot.

"Yeah. Also known as The Glass Factory," Spot replied, his eyes appraising the room like a proud father.

Before he could stop himself, the words were out of his mouth, "The Glass Factory?"

Spot glanced over him, a look of mild annoyance, mixed with one of superiority, on his face, "Yeah, The Glass Factory. Can you do anything other than repeat me, kid?"

"Sorry. Why's it called The Glass Factory?"

"Well, lots of things get broken in here, if you know what I mean," Spot replied, a smirk playing over his features.

Bolt nodded slowly, as if he understood, though in reality he didn't have the faintest idea what Spot was going on about. The idea to slowly back away entered his mind, but he thrust it out of his thoughts, his curiosity stronger than his wariness. He wanted to know what all this was about. And how he was going to become a part of it.

He glanced around the room again, this time noticing a faint square that was painted haphazardly in the middle of the room. He was slowly beginning to understand what Spot was talking about. He wasn't sure if it was the fight he had just survived, or his lack of any kind of thinking over the last several months, but his brain was moving sluggishly slow.

So it was a boxing ring of sorts? Bolt desperately tried to put the pieces together, but the pounding in his head was keeping him from coming to any real conclusion.

"Ever hear of Monk Eastman, kid?" Spot asked, leading him once again, towards the back of the room.

"Yeah, sure, I've heard of him. Some big shot gangster. What's he got to do with all this?"

Spot glanced over at Bolt from the corner of his eye, "Everything. He owns this joint. It's an underground boxing ring. People from all over the city come here on Friday nights, and gamble on different fighters. There are two different 'teams'. Both teams have a leader. A manager so to speak… I'm one of them."

Bolt digested that information for a moment, before asking, "Who's the other?"

"Nobody you need to worry about. You need to worry about training. Meet Bull." Spot stopped short in front of a massive man. He had to stand at least 6'5, and his bicep was easily as large as Bolt's waist. "Your trainer."

Bolt's eyes widened, as he took in the sight of Bull; the trainer who was aptly named. "My what?! Now, wait a minute, I haven't agreed to anything yet."

"Sure you did," Spot replied calmly, as if he knew everything, "If you don't agree, you'll just be going back to that lousy factory job, being beat up by the Jimmys. You'd rather do that?"

Bolt glared at the floor, knowing Spot was right. If he hadn't lashed out that afternoon, chances were he could have gone on ignoring them, but the fact was he had lashed out, and they weren't the type to forgive and forget. "Alright, fine," he agreed, nodding at Spot.

Spot smirked one last time before giving a slight nod in Bull's direction and disappearing through a door in the back of the room.

"So, where do we start?" Bolt questioned, turning back towards Bull. He hadn't even turned fully around when he felt the all too familiar sensation of a fist connecting with his jaw. The sheer force behind the blow sent him reeling and he lost his balance, crashing roughly to the floor.

Bolt remained where he landed, his whole body jarred from the hit. He'd never been hit so hard in his life, and the impact had caused all the injuries the Jimmys had inflicted to start aching again. He fought off the urge to throw up, his stomach convulsing with each breath he managed to take.

Bull crouched down next to him, resting his elbows on his beefy legs, "Lesson one: Never turn your back on your attacker."