The hall smelled of leather and iron.
Punching bags hung in a row like silent opponents, the floor was scuffed, the neon light on the ceiling flickered in rhythm with my heartbeat.
I stood alone, with only bandages on my fists, and struck.
Left, right, straight, left again.
Every punch was a thunderclap in the silent room, every movement a question without an answer.
My breath burned in my chest.
The gloves lay on the floor, like discarded armor.
I trained without them, wanted to feel the skin, the pulling in my joints, the friction that reminded me I still existed.
Pain was honest. Pain didn't lie.
Stay away.
Three words that were heavier than any round in the ring.
Even while typing them, I had felt how wrong they sounded – like something you say to save someone, even though you know you're losing them by doing so.
I looked down at the floor, where my shadow moved in broken lines.
I barely recognized it.
