The punching bag swung back hard, slamming into my forearm.
I didn't even care.
I hit it again.
And again.
And again.
Each strike was sharper than the last, louder, faster, too much force for regulation equipment. Sweat dripped down my jaw, fell onto the padded floor of the private boxing studio I rented under a fake name.
My knuckles were numb.
My arms burned.
My breathing was ragged.
Good.
Because the alternative was thinking.
And I didn't want to think.
But Sebastian, as always, picked the worst possible time to exist.
The door creaked open.
"HOLY—" he swore immediately as the punching bag snapped off the chain and hit the floor with a heavy THUD.
"Bro?! WHAT THE— Did the bag kill your family?!"
I didn't answer. I just wiped my forehead with the back of my arm.
Sebastian stared at the half-destroyed bag, then at me, then back at the bag.
"What the heck is wrong with you?" His voice was no longer joking. "Did Nathan do something again?"
