The memory hit her like a hammer to the ribs.
Jun Xīng lay awake on the hotel bed, arms folded over her chest, staring at the ceiling as the city lights painted slow-moving shadows above her. The gold medal rested on the nightstand beside her, gleaming faintly in the dark.
Her body refused to sleep.
It never did after a competition.
Too much adrenaline. Too much pain. Too many echoes of the past.
She closed her eyes.
And the gym swallowed her whole.
The National Training Center had always smelled like chalk dust and disinfectant.
Jun Xīng stood barefoot on the spring floor, hair tied into a severe bun, wrists wrapped tight. A digital clock glowed red on the far wall.
04:17 A.M.
Most of the world was still asleep.
She had already finished three hours of conditioning.
"Again," she said flatly.
The coach's whistle shrieked.
She launched forward into her tumbling pass.
Roundoff. Back handspring. Whip. Whip. Full-twisting double layout.
Her feet struck the mat with a bone-jarring thud. She absorbed the impact without a sound, knees bending just enough to save her joints. Chalk burst around her ankles like smoke.
Her breathing never broke rhythm.
"Again."
The younger gymnasts watching from the sidelines stared like they were witnessing something unnatural.
One whispered, "She's already done twelve sets…"
Another swallowed. "That was supposed to be the last one."
Jun Xīng wiped sweat from her eyes and stepped back into position.
Her mind wasn't in the gym.
It was in a narrow hospital room, ten years ago.
Her grandfather lay motionless beneath thin white sheets, his hand cold and light in hers.
"You don't have to do this anymore," he had whispered. "Just be happy."
She had bowed her head and shaken it.
"No," she had said. "I haven't earned it yet."
His grip tightened weakly around her fingers.
"Xīng'er… you don't owe me your life."
"I owe you everything."
He had smiled.
And then he had never opened his eyes again.
The whistle blew again.
Jun Xīng vaulted down the runway.
Her feet struck the springboard.
She exploded into the air.
Her body rotated with machine-perfect precision—arms tight, core locked, toes pointed like blades.
Triple-twisting Yurchenko.
She landed.
The mat rippled.
The gym fell silent.
Coach Liu stared at the landing marks, then at her ankles.
"…Your joints are bleeding," he said quietly.
She glanced down.
Red seeped through the tape.
"So?" she replied.
He clenched his jaw. "You're training like you're going to die if you don't win."
She met his eyes without flinching.
"Then I won't die."
*Flashback Memory*
They had tried to stop her once.
A group of special operations soldiers had been invited to the training center for a joint conditioning program—cross-discipline endurance and body control testing.
Jun Xīng had joined out of curiosity.
She regretted it.
Not because it was hard.
Because they couldn't keep up.
"Five kilometers," the commanding officer had said confidently. "Pace run."
Jun Xīng nodded and started jogging.
They were sprinting by the second kilometer.
By the fourth, three men had dropped out.
At the finish line, one collapsed face-first onto the track.
Another threw up into the grass.
A third lay flat on his back, staring at the sky, whispering, "She's not human…"
Jun Xīng hadn't even broken a sweat.
Next came conditioning.
Pull-ups.
Core drills.
Wall sits.
Sprint ladders.
She completed the full rotation twice.
Two soldiers passed out.
The commanding officer waved his men off, staring at her in something close to fear.
"…How long have you trained like this?" he asked hoarsely.
She thought about her grandfather's funeral.
About the empty apartment.
About the silence that never left her chest.
"Since I was eleven," she said.
*End Flashback Memory*
Back in the hotel room, Jun Xīng's fingers twitched.
Her knees throbbed.
Her wrists burned.
Her shoulders felt like they were packed with broken glass.
She welcomed it.
Pain meant she was still useful.
Her phone buzzed.
She opened her eyes.
Coach Liu again.
She answered. "Coach?"
"Your medical report came back," he said. His voice was low. Careful. "Xīng… your heart rhythm is irregular. Your cortisol levels are off the charts. Your knees have micro-fractures. If you compete again tonight—"
"I'll be fine," she said automatically.
"This isn't about toughness," he snapped. "This is about survival. You're not twenty anymore!"
Silence stretched.
She swung her legs off the bed and stood.
"Do you remember what my grandfather said to you?" she asked quietly.
He exhaled sharply.
"He said…" Coach Liu's voice softened. "He said you would never stop unless someone dragged you off the floor."
Jun Xīng closed her eyes.
"…Then don't drag me."
"Xīng—"
"I'll meet the car downstairs," she said. "Thank you for worrying."
She ended the call.
Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her jacket.
She paused.
For just a second.
Her chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with muscle strain.
Something felt wrong.
Her reflection in the mirror looked pale. Too thin. Too tired.
She placed a hand over her heart.
Just nerves, she told herself.
Just exhaustion.
She grabbed her gym bag and slung it over her shoulder.
"Just one more," she whispered.
She stepped out into the hallway without hesitation.
And didn't look back.
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Next: Chapter 3 – A Life Without Love