The apartment door groaned open as Wang stepped inside, muscles sore but something electric still humming in his veins. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, and his knuckles ached beneath the worn tape, but none of it mattered.
Not today.
Cass lay stretched across the battered couch, exactly where she always was after sundown. Black cotton panties, same as usual. Her legs—tanned, scarred, and smooth in the right spots—were kicked up lazily on the armrest, toes wiggling to a tune only she could hear. A half-buttoned army-green shirt draped loosely over her chest, worn unbuttoned enough to leave the curves of her huge melons clearly visible, only partially covered by a frayed sports bra. The shirt was oversized—probably stolen off some corpse ages ago—but on her, it clung just right in all the wrong places.
She had a cig burning low between her fingers and a beer half-finished on the coffee table. The TV was on, some ancient VHS playing static-streaked footage of an old boxing match—barely audible over the apartment's busted fan grinding in the corner.
She looked up as he walked in.
"The fuck is with that grin?" she asked, arching an eyebrow, lips curling into something between curiosity and sarcasm.
Wang dropped his bag and leaned against the wall, grinning like an idiot.
"Landed a hit."
Cass tilted her head. "On who?"
"Rocky."
She blinked, then let out a low whistle. "No shit?"
"No shit," Wang said. "Dropped him to one knee."
Cass laughed, genuinely this time. A warm, throaty sound. "Holy fuck. Thought that bastard was built like a fuckin' dump truck."
"He is," Wang said, wincing as he pulled his shirt off, exposing a web of fresh bruises across his ribs. "I hit him right in the gut. Full rotation. Let the cyber arm do its thing."
Cass sat up slightly and gave him a slow, impressed nod. "Didn't think you had that in you. Look at you, little kung fu prodigy."
Wang smirked. "Coming from you, that almost sounds like affection."
She dragged off the last of her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. "Don't get used to it."
"Trust me," Wang said, already heading for the bathroom, "I've learned not to expect kindness around here."
He stepped over a pile of dirty laundry and shoved open the bathroom door. Same as always—tiles stained with something no bleach could fix, the sink faucet constantly dripping, the cracked mirror reflecting back a tired version of himself. Steam never existed in this room.
He turned the tap.
The pipes screeched like a dying pig.
Then—
WHOOSH.Ice water exploded from the nozzle and slammed into his chest like a bucket of Arctic hell.
"FUCK—!"
Cass cackled from the couch. "Still not used to it, are ya?"
Wang yelled back through gritted teeth, his breath catching from the sheer shock of it. "It's been three months! THREE! My balls retreat into my body every goddamn time!"
Cass shouted back with a laugh, "That's the cold water reminding you it's still in charge!"
Wang stood under the spray, shivering, letting it wash the sweat and grime off. His flesh was covered in goosebumps, his muscles clenched, but he didn't step out.
Because this was routine now. Familiar pain.
And weirdly?
It meant he was still alive.
Still in the fight.
Still pushing forward.
He took deep breaths, letting the water numb him out.
Cass's voice drifted down the hallway again, less teasing this time.
"Seriously, though. Good job, Chang."
Wang blinked.
She never used his actual name. Not unless she meant it.
"Thanks," he called out. "Means a lot."
"Don't get soft on me now," she replied. "You've still got a few hundred fights left to lose before you're worth betting on."
He smiled despite the cold.
Same Cass. Always biting. Always blunt.
But for once, she sounded kinda proud.
And for now?
That was enough.
***
The morning heat already seeped through the cracked walls of the gym, making the air inside feel thick and stale. Dust floated lazily in beams of sunlight that slipped through the gaps in the corrugated tin roof. A heavy bag swung slowly in the corner, still swaying from the last poor bastard who took too long to dodge.
Wang stepped inside, drenched in sweat from the jog over. His hoodie clung to his back, and his knuckles were taped up fresh, stiff with tension. His body was starting to feel like a machine—bruised, patched up, but moving with a kind of quiet purpose.
Rocky stood in the middle of the mat, arms crossed over his broad chest, sweat already glistening across his neck and shoulders from an early round of bag work.
He didn't waste time.
"Three days," Rocky said, voice flat and low. "You're fighting in three days."
Wang stopped mid-step.
His breath hitched just for a second.
"Wait… that soon?"
Rocky's expression didn't change. "Yeah."
Wang frowned. "I thought I'd have more time. More prep. More—fuck, I don't know—warning."
Rocky stepped forward, eyes sharp.
"You think fights wait for you to feel ready?" he said. "You think the guys out there give a shit about your prep time?"
Wang opened his mouth to say something. Closed it again.
He looked down at his fists.
"You really think I'm ready?" he asked.
That was the first time he'd asked that—really asked. No swagger. No sarcasm.
Just raw truth, hanging in the heat like a question to the gods.
Rocky stared at him for a moment.
Then said, simply, "No one's ready until they do it."
Wang looked up.
Rocky stepped past him, grabbed a towel from a busted bench, and tossed it over his shoulder.
"You train. You bleed. You puke your fuckin' guts out. But none of it means shit 'til you step into that pit and look someone in the eye who wants to tear your head off for five hundred bucks and a tin of beans."
Wang clenched his jaw. His cybernetic hand tightened into a fist with a soft whirr.
"Three days," Rocky repeated, turning back to face him. "That's not a countdown. That's a fuckin' warning."
Wang nodded slowly to himself, taking in the weight of it.
He'd fought to survive. He'd killed before. He'd been hunted, branded, betrayed.
But this?
This was different.
This was choosing to step into violence.
This was ownership.
Rocky walked up beside him and gave him a hard tap on the shoulder.
"Now quit thinkin' like a scared kid," he said. "Get your gloves on. You've still got a lotta hurting to do before you're ready to give some back."
Wang exhaled slow. Then nodded.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Alright."
He walked toward the mat, rolling his shoulders, focus tightening like a vice.
Three days.
Let them come.
Q: How would you prep yourself for a sports tournament?