The gym announced itself before it came into view.
Joe heard it from halfway down the street: a dull, rhythmic thudding that didn't match music or machinery. It wasn't loud exactly, but it was persistent, layered—leather against flesh, rope slapping canvas, shoes scraping wood. The sound leaked through brick and metal and carried into the cold air like heat.
He stopped outside the door longer than necessary.
The sign above it was small, practical. No slogans. No imagery. Just a name in block letters, paint chipped at the corners. The windows were high and frosted, light bleeding through without revealing detail. People went in and out without ceremony, the door swinging shut behind them every time.
Joe adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. It felt lighter than it should have, empty of purpose if not weight.
Inside, the air hit him all at once.
Warm. Stale. Thick with sweat and disinfectant and old fabric. Underneath it all, a metallic tang that sat at the back of the throat. The noise intensified immediately, bouncing off hard surfaces without regard for rhythm. Someone laughed. Someone swore. A bell rang, sharp and unmusical.
Joe stood just inside the doorway, momentarily unsure where to put his eyes.
The space was larger than it appeared from outside but lower, compressed by exposed beams and hanging lights. The floor was scuffed and uneven. Heavy bags lined one wall, each moving at a slightly different tempo, chains creaking as they absorbed punishment. Speed bags rattled somewhere overhead, the sound rapid and irritating, like something being shaken loose.
There was a ring in the center. Canvas worn thin, corners darkened by sweat and use. Two men moved inside it now, gloves on, headgear absent. They weren't sparring lightly. Not hard either. Somewhere in between, a level Joe didn't yet have language for.
No one looked at him.
That registered immediately.
In the academy, new presence was noted, acknowledged, categorized. Here, Joe existed only as a body occupying space, and until that space intersected with someone else's purpose, he was irrelevant.
He stepped further in, letting the door close behind him.
The hierarchy revealed itself without explanation.
Older fighters claimed territory closest to the ring, leaning against ropes, towels draped over shoulders, speaking sparingly. Younger ones circled the edges, working bags or skipping rope, eyes flicking toward the center more often than they should. A few moved with casual authority, crossing the floor without avoiding anyone, conversations parting around them.
Joe watched and adjusted his position instinctively, staying out of lanes, keeping his back to a wall.
Movement here was different.
Not sloppy, as he'd assumed. But inefficient in a way that was deliberate. People wasted energy on purpose—shoulders rolling, arms loose, feet sliding instead of snapping into place. Balance wasn't frozen and held. It was constantly regained.
Joe felt it in his legs immediately.
The floor didn't give the same feedback as carpet or court. It was solid, but uneven, worn down by years of impact. Every step required micro-adjustment. He shifted his weight unconsciously, testing traction, calibrating.
Someone brushed past him and clipped his shoulder without apology. Joe barely reacted, reflexes smoothing the contact into nothing.
Still no one looked at him.
He leaned his bag against the wall and unzipped it, removing his hand wraps. He didn't put them on yet. He watched first.
In the ring, the two men circled.
One was shorter, broader, pressure-forward. The other moved backward more than Joe expected, heels kissing the edge of the canvas before sliding away again. The exchanges were brief—gloves tapping, not cracking. Neither committed fully.
Joe followed the footwork automatically, tracing angles, predicting entries. He noticed the backward-moving fighter crossed his feet once, barely, then corrected. The shorter man stepped in too square twice and paid for it with light contact to the face.
No one commented.
The bell rang again. The men separated, nodding to each other, breathing hard. They didn't look pleased or disappointed. They looked occupied.
An older man stepped onto the apron and spoke quietly to one of them. Joe couldn't hear the words, but he watched the body language. No lecturing. No gesturing. Just information exchanged, minimal and specific.
Joe shifted his stance without realizing it, weight settling into a balanced position. His hands rose slightly, then dropped again.
A speed bag rattled violently nearby. Joe flinched a fraction too late, annoyed at himself.
He wrapped his hands carefully, tape biting into skin, knuckles flattening. The process grounded him. He tightened the final loop and flexed his fingers, feeling the unfamiliar compression.
Still no one had spoken to him.
He moved to an empty space near a mirror—smaller than the one at home, cracked at the edge. He faced it and raised his hands, immediately aware of how different he looked here. The lighting was harsh, shadows exaggerating tension. His posture felt artificial in this context, too composed, too deliberate.
He jabbed once, lightly.
The motion felt clean but hollow.
He jabbed again, stepping to the side. The floor shifted under his foot. The correction came late, a half-beat off. He noticed immediately and adjusted, shortening the step.
He kept his movements small, aware of eyes even when none were on him.
Someone laughed behind him. Someone else grunted sharply as a punch landed somewhere out of view. A bag swung past, chain groaning.
Joe continued shadowboxing, but the mirror no longer held his attention. His awareness widened, pulled outward by noise and motion. He found himself reacting to sounds—ducking slightly when a glove cracked, shifting when a body moved too close.
This wasn't isolation.
It was intrusion.
He stopped after ten minutes, breathing harder than expected. Sweat slicked his back. He peeled off his wraps and re-taped one hand where the compression had loosened.
Only then did someone speak to him.
"First time?"
The voice was older, neutral. Not loud.
Joe turned.
The man stood a few steps away, arms folded loosely. He was past middle age, hair thinning, face lined in a way that suggested neither stress nor ease. He wore no gloves, no headgear. Just a faded shirt and worn trainers.
"Yes," Joe said.
The man nodded once, eyes flicking briefly to Joe's feet, then to his hands. "You train something else?"
Joe hesitated, then answered. "Badminton."
The man's expression didn't change. "That explains the feet."
Joe said nothing.
"Stay out of the ring today," the man added. Not a command. A condition. "Watch. Work the bags if you want."
"Okay."
The man lingered a second longer, eyes scanning Joe's stance as if committing it to memory, then turned away without further comment.
Joe felt the absence keenly.
He moved to a heavy bag near the back. It was older than the others, leather cracked, surface uneven. He touched it lightly with his knuckles, testing resistance. The bag barely moved.
He jabbed it once.
The impact traveled up his arm unpleasantly, dull and spreading. He withdrew his hand immediately, shaking it once before stopping himself.
The bag didn't care.
He adjusted and jabbed again, softer. The bag swayed an inch, then settled back into place, indifferent.
Joe worked around it cautiously, throwing light punches, stepping laterally. The bag responded only when he committed more weight, and when he did, the return force surprised him every time. There was no feedback loop beyond discomfort.
His shoulders tightened. His rhythm faltered.
He watched others between sets.
One man hammered a bag relentlessly, every strike thudding with heavy finality. His form wasn't pretty. His feet dragged. His guard dropped. None of it seemed to matter. The bag swung violently, chain shrieking, the man stepping in after it without hesitation.
Another fighter moved lightly, touching the bag rather than striking it, letting it come to him before slipping aside. His movements were relaxed, almost casual. Joe noticed his breathing stayed even.
Joe tried to replicate the second man's approach.
It didn't translate.
Without the bag's cooperation, without understanding its rhythm, Joe's movements looked like an imitation of an imitation. He grew frustrated, not with failure, but with invisibility. No one corrected him. No one intervened.
He existed in the gym the same way he had existed outside the academy at the end—present, but not accounted for.
The bell rang again. Another sparring session began.
Joe drifted closer, drawn by motion.
This time, the fighters were younger. Sloppier. One came forward aggressively, throwing too much, leaving himself open. The other retreated clumsily, guard high, feet crossing repeatedly.
Joe watched intently.
He saw openings everywhere. Moments where a step would have changed everything. He felt his weight shift, knees bending, body preparing to move as if he were the one about to be tested.
A punch landed cleanly. The sound was sharper this time. The fighter who took it stumbled back, blinking, then grinned despite the flush spreading across his cheek.
They continued.
Joe felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
The older man—the trainer, Joe assumed—stood nearby, arms crossed, watching the same exchange. His gaze tracked foot placement more than punches. When one fighter overreached, his eyes narrowed slightly. When the other recovered balance under pressure, the man's head tilted a fraction.
The round ended. The fighters separated, breathing hard, faces flushed. No one applauded. No one commented.
Joe turned away, unsettled by how little ceremony accompanied the violence.
He packed his bag slowly, unsure whether he was meant to leave or stay.
As he slung it over his shoulder, the older man appeared again at his side.
"You come back tomorrow," he said.
It wasn't phrased as a question.
Joe looked at him. "Am I allowed?"
The man considered that for a moment, eyes steady. "Door's open."
No praise. No reassurance. Just access.
Joe nodded once.
As he turned to go, he understood the condition without it being stated.
Whatever he brought with him—speed, balance, imitation—would only matter if it survived contact.
The door swung shut behind him, the noise of the gym closing in on itself, unchanged by his presence, waiting to see if he would return.