The gym smelled like sweat and rubber, faint metal tang in the air.
He stood in front of the heavy bag, gloves already on, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. The place was empty except from the echoes of his fist hitting a punching bag, he stood at the corner, under the harsh fluorescent lights, he felt wide awake. Too awake.
Charity case.
Scholarship kid.
Easy to push around.
His fists slammed into the leather with brutal rhythm. Wham. Thud. Wham. The chain rattled overhead, groaning under the punishment. Sweat stung his eyes, blurred the edges of the room. Still, he didn’t stop.
“Whoa, man.”
A voice cut through the echo.
Jared.
His assistant, yes, but more than that his friend, his brother. One of the few constants from St Matthew's, the orphanage where they’d grow
