I need to hit something.
***
The gym is empty—I pay extra to ensure it is when I'm here. My trainer, Bryan, is already waiting, wrapping his hands with practiced efficiency.
"Mr. Hale." He's ex-military, built like a tank, and one of the few people I trust to actually hit me back. "The usual?"
"No." I strip off my jacket and tie, my movements sharp. "I want to spar. Full contact."
His eyebrows raise slightly. "Sir, you seem—"
"Full contact, Bryan. Don't hold back."
Something flickers in his eyes—concern, maybe, or recognition that I'm not in the right headspace for this. But he nods and moves to the ring.
I should stretch. Should warm up properly. But the restless energy coiling through my muscles demands release now.
The first round starts, and I'm too aggressive. I know it immediately. My punches are wild, fueled by something darker than strategy. Bryan blocks easily, counters with a jab that catches my ribs.
Good. I want it to hurt.
"Focus, Mr. Hale," he says calmly.
I ignore him and press forward. Another combination, sloppy. He slips past my guard and lands a solid hit to my jaw. My head snaps back, and I taste blood.
Better.
We circle each other, and I see the calculation in his eyes. He's wondering if he should ease up, if I'm actually trying to get hurt.
Maybe I am.
I think of Chen's face. The fear. The resignation. The way I crushed him without remorse because he was in the way of what I wanted.
I think of Eve, sleeping peacefully in her apartment, unaware that I've just set in motion the destruction of one of her key business relationships.
I think of the note she left me. "You have my attention."
And I wonder—when she finally knows the full extent of what I've done, will she still look at me with anything but horror?
The distraction costs me. Bryan's fist connects with my cheekbone, hard enough to make my vision blur. I stumble back, catching myself on the ropes.
"Mr. Hale—"
I charge at him, abandoning all technique. Just raw aggression, the need to feel something other than this gnawing emptiness. He blocks, counters, and suddenly I'm on my back on the mat, his knee on my chest, his forearm across my throat.
Not enough pressure to choke. Just enough to restrain.
We both breathe hard for a moment.
"You want to tell me what that was about?" he asks quietly.
"No."
"You're going to hurt yourself if you keep this up."
"Maybe I should."
He releases me and stands, offering a hand. I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. My face is throbbing. My ribs ache. It's not enough.
