"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. It was comfort, in a way. A shrine of pain and repetition.
Skillet's guitars screamed through his headphones, something aggressive and fast. Or maybe it was 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 above.
Good.
Then a second. A 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 to the left. Slide back. A teep kick snapped into the bag's ribs. He pressed in, clinched tight, and drove a knee straight up with a grunt. The chain overhead groaned. Again. And again. Knees fast as pistons.
"Ha!" he shouted, spinning into a roundhouse that thumped hard enough to shake 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 like a pendulum. 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, about the late bus, about whether he'd remembered to 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.
Focus, Darren. Come on. Form.
He corrected his stance. Jab. Head movement. Inside kick. Back to elbow.
Then the playlist shifted. "Monster." The Skillet riff kicked in hard and fast, the tempo syncing with the beat of 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. He wasn't flashy, wasn't clean, but he was sharp and 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.
His fists blurred. Each impact thudded louder than the last.
His fists slammed into the bag, again and again, until even the music started to blur.
Breathe. Move. Hit.
He yanked the headphones off. Threw them to the mat. Let the silence hit.
Well… silence except for the clink of chain, the rain tapping on the roof, and the tight thunder of his pulse behind his ears.
He stepped in again, slower this time. Clinched the bag. Pulled it in tight. Knees. Left, right, right again. His forehead pressed to canvas. The heat and sweat of it soaked 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.
No lightning bolt gave him powers. No serum. No accident. No purpose.
Just… woke up like this one day. Stronger. Faster. Not normal. Not explainable.
Not wanted.
Didn't matter. He was here. Might as well earn it. He hit the bag harder.
Just to feel the noise.
He slammed an elbow into the side. Another. A spin.
His fists ached. Good. That was the point.
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 shit worked. His body trembled. His chest rose and fell 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 his head up.
The sweat stung his eyes and his shirt clung to him 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 reflection of a cracked mirror nearby, hollow-eyed, and soaked. He looked like a warning poster. Or a mugshot.
He picked up his headphones again. Linkin Park hummed through them now. "I tried so hard, and got so far…"
He didn't want to hear the rest. Not tonight.
He turned the music off.
Random thought: Did I lock the front door?
Another one: When's that assignment due?
Another: 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.