His footsteps echoed through the narrow stairway, each step feeling as though he were carrying lead in his legs—slow, heavy, and uncertain. The sound grew louder the further he went, step after step, until it filled the small, suffocating space around him.
The old stairs creaked beneath his weight, as if they too were tired of holding up a heart that had long since turned to stone.
There was no light here, only a few weak rays slipping through the cracks in the wall, touching the peeling paint that hung like aging skin on a forgotten body. Hashina followed that faint glow, letting it guide him toward the exit.
It had been so long since he last saw the outside world.
The cries of cicadas filled the air, sharp and endless, ringing through the red summer trees in hot, trembling waves. Their sound blended with the heat rising from the ground, reminding Hashina of the days when he used to chase a dream—like a small sparrow once brave enough to fly toward the open sky, only to find itself trapped inside a cage it could never escape.
The trees along the street bent low, their leaves dry and exhausted, barely moving in the weak, dusty wind. The scent of flamboyant flowers mixed with the heavy smell of asphalt—sweet, thick, and almost suffocating, like the taste of summer itself.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the season run through his chest, through every beat of his heart. For a fleeting moment, it felt as if he was alive again—alive beneath the sunlight, the cicadas, and the vivid pulse of life he had nearly forgotten. Something within him stirred—quietly, but truly—like a dry river remembering its path back to the sea.
He breathed again, slower this time, as if trying to keep that fragile spark from slipping away.
When he opened his eyes, the world appeared sharper, brighter. The sky, the trees, the streets—all of it seemed newly painted, as though someone had added color back into a gray, forgotten picture.
Without realizing it, he had already arrived. Through the shimmer of heat, the outline of old buildings wavered, and among them stood a faded sign: Fighting Club.
Hashina clenched his fists, drew in a steady breath, and stepped forward. Each stride pressed hard against the burning pavement—still heavy, still uncertain, but no longer empty. The road to the gym wasn't long, but to him, it felt like crossing the border between two worlds—the one he was leaving behind, and the one that waited, still undefined, ahead. Perhaps it was hope. Or perhaps, just another test from fate.
He pushed the door open.
The scene before him was both familiar and distant, like a memory he could almost touch.
The first sound he heard was the sharp rhythm of fists striking sandbags—thump, thump, thump—each impact echoing through the room like a heartbeat. The air smelled of sweat, leather, and old rubber mats: dry, raw, and painfully alive.
Under the pale fluorescent lights, a few young fighters moved with purpose, sweat dripping from their bodies and darkening the floor beneath them.
Hashina stood still, silent, watching every motion, every breath, as if searching for a part of himself hidden within that rhythm.
Then, a low voice came from behind him. "You here for the interview?"
He turned around. A man in his forties stood there—broad shoulders, sharp eyes, and a face worn by time but not without curiosity.
"Yes," Hashina answered quietly. It had been a long time since he had spoken to anyone outside.
The man nodded slightly, motioning toward the ring. "Come on."
As the man walked ahead, Hashina lingered for a moment in the pale, flickering light, his body tense yet alive, his thoughts trembling between fear and hope—standing there as if, for the first time in a very long while, he had been born again.