"Okay. Legs, move. Mouth, shut up. Brain, focus."
Darren bounced in place, fists twitching in their wraps, breath already quick.
The gym was dead quiet except for the buzz of red neon stuttering across the ceiling. The sign outside read CLOSED, but he never left when it flipped. He had the key. He had the night.
The place smelled like it always did, old sweat baked into mats, rusted pipes, blood dried under tape. Comfort, in a way. A shrine of pain and repetition.
Skillet screamed through his headphones. Or maybe Rob Zombie. Didn't matter. It was loud. He needed it loud.
The heavy bag slammed with the first jab. The chain jolted. Dust rained from the rafters.
Good.
Second. Third. His cross snapped in tight. Hook. Elbow. His body knew the drill before his brain could trip over it.
Teep. Jab. Cross. Low kick. Reset.
He circled, southpaw then orthodox. Bounce left. Slide back. A teep kick snapped into the bag's midsection. He pressed in, clinched tight, drove a knee straight up with a grunt. The chain groaned. Again. And again. Knees like pistons.
"Ha!" He spun into a roundhouse that shook dust from the rafters. His heel skidded. Recovered. Keep moving.
One, two, three... seven? Shit. Start again.
His mind drifted. Was that seven or five? Did I email that lecturer back? Did I leave the oven on?
He struck harder.
The bag swung. He almost slipped in his own sweat. Didn't matter. Keep moving.
The thoughts never left. They just ducked and weaved like a second opponent in the ring.
He tried to focus, on form, on weight shifts, on exhaling when he struck. But part of him was still thinking about dinner, the late bus, whether he'd put his phone on Do Not Disturb.
"SHUT UP," he hissed. Not at anyone. Just at everything.
The bag didn't answer. So he hit it again.
The playlist shifted. Monster. The Skillet riff kicked in hard and fast, tempo syncing with his fists. He liked that. Gave him something to chase.
"The secret side of me... I never let you see..."
Yeah. That hit a little too close.
He lost himself in it. Hook, kick, elbow, clinch. Back to Muay Thai basics. Not flashy, not clean. But sharp. Fast. His strikes had edge now. Months of bruises. Months of nights here. Months of figuring out what to do with all this strength in his bones that shouldn't have been there.
This was the only place he had control.
He yanked the headphones off. Threw them to the mat. Let the silence hit.
Well. Silence except for the clink of chain, rain on the roof, and the tight thunder of his pulse behind his ears.
He stepped in again, slower. Clinched the bag. Pulled it close. Knees. Left, right, right again. His forehead pressed to canvas. Heat and sweat soaking into his skin.
He wasn't thinking anymore. Just feeling the impact.
He didn't think about why he could hit this hard. Why his hands didn't break. Why his legs could dent a car door.
Didn't matter. He was here. Might as well earn it.
He was a nineteen-year-old trying to keep from falling apart in a gym at midnight. A kid who felt like a monster sometimes. Or a ghost. Or both.
He slammed an elbow into the bag. Another. Spinning elbow. The bag rocked.
Hook. Hook. Step back. Spinning back kick. Contact.
A loud crack echoed through the empty gym.
His heartbeat roared in his ears.
He wanted to lie flat on the mat and vanish. Just let the night roll over him. But that wasn't how this worked.
His body trembled. Chest heaving in harsh, uneven gulps.
What time is it? Did I lock the flat? Shit, I forgot to eat dinner...
He shook his head hard. Just to shut himself up.
The sweat stung his eyes. His shirt clung like wet paper. His arms felt like they'd been dragging cinderblocks.
He let himself drop to one knee. Hands on thighs. Breathing hard.
The red light pulsed in the cracked mirror nearby. Hollow-eyed. Soaked. He looked like a warning poster. Or a mugshot.
He picked up the headphones. Linkin Park hummed through them now.
"I tried so hard, and got so far..."
He turned the music off.
Did I lock the front door?
When's that assignment due?
Is this what being alive is supposed to feel like?
He wiped his face. Drank from the bottle. It tasted like plastic and desperation.
Good enough.
The gym was still. No applause. Nobody watching from the shadows. Just him, alone, under the flicker of that busted exit sign.
He stared at the bag. It barely swayed.
He'd probably be back tomorrow.