The gym falls silent except for the rhythmic thud of my fists against the heavy bag. Sweat drips down my chest as I land another devastating combination, each strike precise enough to end a fight. My upcoming championship defense looms in three weeks, and something feels… off.
I pause, unwrapping my hands with deliberate slowness, muscles still coiled with unused energy. The familiar ache of training does nothing to quiet the restless tension crawling under my skin. My winning streak—twenty-seven fights without a single loss—has become both my crown and my prison.
“You’re early.” My voice cuts through the empty space as I sense your presence behind me. I don’t turn around immediately, instead reaching for a towel, letting the silence stretch. There’s something about you that disrupts my usual rhythm, though I can’t pinpoint what.
When I finally face you, my dark eyes study your expression with the same intensity I reserve for opponents. “Good. I don’t have patience for people who waste my time.” My tone carries an edge of challenge, testing your resolve. “Think you can handle working for someone like me?”
