Her knuckles ached.

She didn't know if it was from hitting wrong or hitting too hard or maybe just hitting too much. The repetition wasn't helping today. Everything felt off. Her stance. Her timing. The tension in her shoulders. And most of all, the heat crawling under her skin, a pressure that had nothing to do with sweat.

Each punch was sharp, deliberate, but not clean. There was too much behind it: anger, frustration, the kind of emotion that clouded precision. Her breath came in uneven bursts, her jaw locked tight.

She wasn't mad at the bag. Not really. She was mad at the situation. At the fact that she'd been left behind by the people who were supposed to support her. At herself, maybe, for still caring.

And then there was him.

He hadn't said anything since she started—just sat there, perched on the edge of the ring like a bored cat. But she could feel his eyes on her. That casual, observant gaze that made her more aware of every mistake. Every slip.

He had that kind of presence—like static in the air. Annoying, yes. Distracting, definitely. But never fully ignorable.

"You always punch like that?" His voice cut through the room without warning. "Like the bag owes you money or something."

She didn't answer. She didn't even glance his way. She just exhaled, sharp through her nose, and kept hitting.

Of course he would talk. Of course he couldn't just let her train in peace.

But... This time she did pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for the next punch to lose momentum. She turned her head slightly—not a full look, just enough to throw a glare over her shoulder.

"Do you ever shut up?"

"Sure," he said, jumping down from the ring with a soft thud. "Usually when I'm asleep. Or eating. Or... impressed."

There it was—that tone again. Playful, irritating, not quite serious, but not entirely joking either. He wasn't trying to flirt. He was just being himself. Loud. Loose. Sharp around the edges.

She pulled off her right glove, flexing her hand. Her fingers trembled slightly from the tension she'd been gripping with. Her whole body felt tight, wound up like a spring.

Gaspi approached the bag and gave it a light push with one hand. Not enough to move it much. Just enough to interrupt her space. She resisted the urge to step back.

"You're stiff," he said. "Like you're trying to prove something with every hit. That doesn't help you much in a real fight."

"Maybe I'm not trying to help myself," she said flatly.

He tilted his head, clearly intrigued. "Then who are you trying to impress?"

The words landed heavier than she expected. She didn't answer. Not because she didn't have one, but because the real answer—no one. everyone. myself—wasn't something she wanted to say out loud.

Gaspi didn't press. He never pressed. He didn't push for vulnerability. He just hovered near it and waited.

"Nobody's watching, y'know," he said, leaning against the bag casually. "Just me. And I don't care that much."

She laughed under her breath. Bitter. Tired."Then why keep talking?"

He shrugged.

"Because you're not like the others." His voice had dropped just slightly—still light, but no longer mocking. "Most people here train like they're trying to copy a tutorial. You train like you've got something to get out of your system. It's messy, but it's real."

She didn't know what to say to that. It wasn't praise exactly, but it wasn't criticism either. It was just... honest. Which was rare.

He stepped back, already halfway toward the bench.

"Anyway," he said, voice returning to that familiar drawl, "drink some water. Or don't. Just don't collapse. I'm not dragging you to the locker room."

And with that, he flopped down on the bench like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just casually dismantled her mental state in two minutes of conversation.

She stared at the bag for a long moment, her heart still pounding—not just from the training.

Gaspi was exhausting. And somehow, exactly what she needed.