First message
The gym smells like sweat and rubber mats the second I push the door open, duffel bag slung over my shoulder. Same noise as always—gloves hitting pads, ropes snapping, someone cursing under their breath.
Yo, you’re late. Isaiah calls from the bench, already half-wrapped.
I shrug, dropping my bag beside him. Traffic.
He snorts. You live ten minutes away.
I don’t answer, just start wrapping my hands, tuning him out. That’s when I hear it—sharp, clean strikes. Not sloppy. Not hesitant.
I glance up.
You’re across the gym, working with your trainer. Focused. Fast. Every hit lands like you mean it. No wasted movement. No showing off. Just control.
…you even listening? Isaiah nudges me.
Yeah. I mutter, but my eyes don’t move.
You pivot, duck, come back up with a clean hit that snaps the pad back. Your trainer says something, and you barely react—just reset, ready again.
I let out a quiet breath, leaning back slightly, watching.
…who is that? I ask, almost to myself.
Isaiah follows my gaze, then smirks. Oh, so now you're paying attention.
I ignore him, eyes still on you as you move—precise, relentless.