Hao bumped gloves with the senior on his left, then the one on his right, feeling those knuckles heavier against his. Doru's glare had a new edge to it now.
Not amusement.
Not pity.
Something closer to respect, wrapped in irritation.
Hao didn't have to climb through the ropes so much as float out. His legs felt light. His chest rose and fell, but his breathing wasn't ragged. Sweat slid down his neck, soaked into his shirt, but the usual heaviness in his limbs just… didn't show up.
The rest of the gym roared back to full volume around him. A kid hit pads in the far corner, each smack punctuated by his trainer's sharp "Again!" Somewhere behind him, the old fan in the window rattled like it was losing a fight with the air.
Hao stepped down off the apron, gloves hanging at his sides.
Mr. Jon was waiting for him by the wall.
He didn't look like much at a glance. Medium height, thick through the chest and shoulders in a way that clothes couldn't quite hide. His black t-shirt stretched over a stomach that wasn't flat anymore, muscle sinking under the soft creep of age.
His beard was stuck in a constant war between black and grey, trimmed short along his jaw but always a day away from becoming full stubble again. One ear was slightly crushed and folded from old damage, too many years of getting hit and refusing to quit. A thin white scar split his left eyebrow in two, the line pale against his darker skin.
Up close, Hao could see the lines around the man's mouth more clearly, carved there by decades of watching idiots get themselves hurt.
He smelled faintly of sweat, cheap coffee, and that medicinal liniment he rubbed into people's shoulders when they tried to shrug off injuries.
His arms were crossed. His eyes were narrowed.
"How are you moving like that, kid?" Jon asked.
His tone wasn't impressed.
It wasn't angry either.
It was cautious.
Hao stopped in front of him, suddenly aware of how quiet his own breathing sounded compared to the panting coming from the others.
"I'm just… feeling lighter," Hao said.
Jon snorted, a small, humorless sound.
"Last month you were… alright," he went on. "Decent. Taking too many hits, dropping your hands, but at least you listened."
He jerked his chin toward the ring, where Doru was still sitting, elbows on his knees, sucking air like he'd run a marathon.
"Today you're boxing like you finally read the manual."
Hao swallowed.
"My mind just feels clearer lately," he said.
Jon's eyebrow climbed slowly.
"That's it?"
Hao rolled one shoulder, forcing himself not to fidget. The glove felt too big and too light at the same time.
"I've been sleeping better," he added. "Eating better. I started cooking more."
All technically true.
None of it explained why his reaction times felt shaved down to the bone.
"Eating better, huh," Jon repeated. His gaze dragged over Hao's face, steady and unblinking, like he could peel back skin with his eyes and see what was underneath. "You take anything?"
"No," Hao said, too quick.
Jon's eyes narrowed another fraction.
"Any shakes, weird supplements, stuff you bought cheap online?"
"No."
"Pills?"
"No."
Jon's jaw worked behind his beard. For a moment, the noise of the gym seemed to press in closer, a wall of shouts and thuds and the dull ring of gloves on heavy bags.
Then his voice dropped a little, quieter under the gym noise.
"You're not doing anything stupid, are you?" he asked. "No drugs. No crap some friend of a friend talked you into. Because that kind of shortcut doesn't just wreck your liver. It gets in your head, too."
Up close, his eyes looked older than the rest of him. Not weak. Just tired in a way that came from seeing the same mistakes on repeat.
Hao's mind flashed back to a staircase that didn't end, to a basement door that rattled in its frame, to something scraping in the dark.
Something had gotten into his head.
It just wasn't sold in capsules.
"I'm not on anything," he said.
Jon held his gaze a second longer, like he was trying to decide whether to believe him. The seconds stretched tight. Somewhere to the left, the timer beeped for another round, but Jon didn't look away.
Then he exhaled through his nose.
"Good," he said. "Keep it that way."
He still didn't sound convinced.
"But you are different," Jon added.
He glanced back at the ring, where Doru was finally hauling himself up, then at Hao again.
"Bodies don't jump that fast without a price. Be careful what you let into your head, son. Once it's in, it doesn't like leaving."
The hum in Hao's skull pulsed, soft as a second heartbeat.
A familiar presence whispered at the edge of his thoughts. His anchor.
He blinked it away.
"I know," he said quietly.
Jon studied him one more heartbeat, then clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. The weight was solid and grounding, dragging Hao's awareness back down into his body.
"Hit the bag for a couple rounds," Jon said. "Light work. Then stretch out and go home. Don't chase the high, you hear me? Let your body catch up."
There was no accusation in his voice now. Just that steady, worn patience he used on everyone. The same tone he used when he told a kid to tighten their guard or pick their feet up.
Hao nodded and turned away.
The gym noise rushed back in around him like a wave. Gloves snapping. People yelling instructions over music that had long since blended into background noise. The smell of sweat and rubber and old blood clung to the air.
His legs carried him toward the heavy bags on autopilot.
He passed the old mirror leaning crooked against the wall and caught his reflection for a second. Headgear off, hair damp and sticking up in uneven clumps, shirt glued to his back. He looked like himself.
Just… sharper around the edges.
His eyes lingered for half a breath, searching for something he couldn't name, then he tore his gaze away and kept walking.
He stopped in front of an empty bag, raised his gloves, set his stance, and threw a simple one-two into the leather.
The bag shuddered, chains rattling overhead.
His knuckles tingled.
His lungs stayed calm.
Again.
One-two. The bag swung. He slipped to the side, reset, and fired another pair. His shoulders rolled through the motion like they'd been doing it in his sleep.
Deep inside his chest, his heartbeat kept that same wrong steadiness, perfectly in time with something that wasn't his at all.
I didn't chase anything, he thought, watching the bag tilt away and swing back toward him. It found me.
He slipped the returning bag, reset his feet, and punched again.
The blessing stayed quiet.
Listening.
And across the room, Mr. Jon leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, gaze still tracking Hao like a man watching a storm form where there hadn't been clouds before.