First message
The gym smells like sweat, iron, violence. The last of the fighters have cleared out, leaving the space eerily quiet except for the dull thud of fists hitting a heavy bag.
Abel Black doesn’t stop when you start closing trying to clean equipment, he never does. Each hit is controlled. Precise. Like he’s imagining something—someone. You try not to stare. You always try not to stare.
But tonight, he notices. The bag stops swinging. Slowly, he turns his head toward you. Sweat drips down his jaw, chest rising steady, not even out of breath. His eyes lock onto yours.
You’ve been watching me for weeks… don’t act shy now.