Daylight Grit
POV: Silas (First Person)
Location: Belmont College – Midweek
People think grief hits you like a tidal wave. But really, it's more like a slow leak.
A week back on campus and everything looked the same. Same cracked pavement. Same cluttered halls. Same professors reading off slides with dead eyes. The only thing that had changed was me. And no one seemed to notice.
Which was fine. If anything, I preferred it that way.
I kept my head low, hoodie up, and slipped through most conversations like a ghost. My roommate barely asked questions. Some people gave me that "Oh, right, you're the guy whose friend died" look, but no one said anything out loud. Not after the initial condolences.
I sat through class after class, tapping notes into my laptop, acting like nothing had shifted. When people laughed, I faked the smile. When group projects came up, I nodded and took the quiet roles. Observer. Background guy. Ghost with a backpack.
But even ghosts need people sometimes.
That's where Devon came in. Black dude. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a solid fade and glasses that made him look like a chill professor-in-training. Laughed like a speaker system on full blast. We weren't close-close, but he was one of Isaiah's old acquaintances. After Isaiah passed, he started checking in more. Offering to share notes. Cracking dumb jokes. The kind of guy who knew not to push too hard but never strayed far.
"Yo," Devon said as we left Econ. "You still dragging your soul around in that hoodie like it owes you rent?"
I snorted. "Some people grieve with ice cream. I chose bad fashion."
"You're one emotional support playlist away from full indie movie status, my guy," he said, grinning.
We shared a laugh. Just enough to loosen the tightness in my chest.
Then there was Aimee. White girl braided blond hair pulled back into neat rows. Smart. Eyes like she was analyzing your soul in real time. She'd corner me in the cafeteria sometimes just to ask if I'd eaten or if I was drinking enough water.
"You can't brood on an empty stomach," she said, setting down a bottled smoothie in front of me one afternoon.
I blinked at it. "You just carry smoothies around now?"
"Only for emotionally unavailable men who forget to eat," she said, sitting across from me. "Now drink it before I make a scene."
We'd talk sometimes — mostly surface stuff. Shows, games, why the hell we were paying so much for barely functioning Wi-Fi. She always had that dry wit, that don't-mess-with-me energy that made it impossible not to listen.
They didn't know about the suit. Or the fights. Or the shadows.
They just knew me.
And that helped more than I wanted to admit.
When I was alone — truly alone — it was different.
That's when I pulled out Isaiah's notebook.
He wasn't the type to journal. But he had sketches. Scribbled diagrams. Designs. Notes about the helmet — before it became the belt. And there, between the half-finished sentences, I felt him. His thoughts. His intention. That impossible hope he always carried.
I sat on my bed, fingers tracing the pencil lines he left behind, and thought about what he would've done if the roles were reversed. Probably something reckless. Definitely something loud.
But always with heart.
That night, after a dinner of leftover noodles and iced coffee, I stood in front of the mirror in my dorm and flexed.
"Alright," I said to my reflection. "Time for the anime training arc."
I grabbed my phone and started researching.
Fighting styles. Combat breakdowns. Street defense. MMA. You name it.
Then I pulled up a few anime clips — older stuff with serious technique. No mainstream flexing or power blasts. Just real martial arts drawn with style. Kenichi: The Mightiest Disciple, Fist of the North Star. Some obscure Korean manhwa clips. Even a few local dojo match breakdowns.
I needed speed, power, control.
I needed discipline.
The suit gave me an edge. But power without training was just wasted potential. Strength without aim.
I downloaded a few training routines, watched a Muay Thai tutorial, then wrote down a short list:
Focus on close-quarter takedowns.Prioritize speed and precision.Learn joint locks, limb control.Incorporate elbow and knee strikes.Use environment in fights.Train stamina, not just brute power.Mix in unpredictability — spinning kicks, fakes, rhythm breaks.
Capoeira caught my eye too — the way it blended rhythm and movement. Not exactly subtle, but it gave me ideas.
I rolled out a mat and dropped to the floor.
Pushups. Sit-ups. Shadowboxing. Footwork drills. Slow form kata from a YouTube tutorial.
My body protested early, still sore from the alley scuffle the night before. But that made it real.
Made it worth it.
The next day, Devon caught me in the hallway outside the gym.
"Yo," he said. "I thought you hated working out?"
"Changed my mind. Thought I'd learn to punch like an anime protagonist."
He blinked, then laughed. "You're joking. But also, you're probably serious. Respect. Just don't start flipping over desks or shouting attack names."
"No promises."
Tomorrow, I'd hit the gym harder. Add weight routines. Time my sprints. Focus on recovery. I even set an alarm to stretch first thing in the morning.
The shadows gave me power.
But I was going to earn the skill.