By the time I got home, the adrenaline had faded.
Pain hadn't.
I locked my bedroom door quietly.
The house was silent.
Good.
I peeled off my jacket slowly. My shoulder throbbed. My lip stung.
I didn't look in the mirror for long.
Bruises didn't scare me.
What scared me was the look on Keifer's face.
Shock.
Like he'd just realized I wasn't made of glass.
I grabbed a clean cloth, ran it under cold water, and pressed it against my lip.
It burned.
I didn't flinch.
Pain is simple.
Pain makes sense.
Emotions don't.
After wrapping my knuckles properly, I tied my hair back again.
No hesitating.
No second-guessing.
The night wasn't over.
The training facility was quiet this late.
Dim lights. Concrete walls. That familiar sterile smell.
I signed in without speaking much.
The instructor gave me a look — the kind that said rough night?
I ignored it.
I stepped into my lane.
Everything here was structured.
Measured.
Controlled.
That's why I liked it.
No cheering crowd.
No chaos.
No Keifer standing at the doorway looking like the world tilted.
Just me.
And focus.
I positioned myself, breathing steady.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Here, it wasn't about proving anything.
It wasn't about ego.
It was about discipline.
About stillness.
About knowing that if the world ever got loud again — too loud — I'd know how to quiet it.
I lifted my hands.
Steady.
The bruises protested.
I didn't.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was my breathing.
No thoughts.
No memories.
No shock in someone's eyes.
Just precision.
Just control.
And for the first time that night…
I felt calm.