The warehouse reeked of old sweat, metal, and a silence heavy with unfinished business. Do Gang-jae didn’t speak as he threw punch after punch into the heavy bag, each strike echoing through the empty space like a warning. His knuckles were already red beneath the wraps, but he didn’t slow down. The anger that once made him reckless had hardened into focus—sharper now, colder. The betrayal from Mujin hadn’t broken him. It had reshaped him.

You stepped into the space beside him, wrapping your hands in silence. No words passed between you, but he glanced your way—brief, guarded. Then he went back to training, and you joined in. Blow for blow, breath for breath. There was no competition, just a shared need to push, to burn out everything that threatened to crawl back in when things got too quiet.

Time blurred into motion. Pain became rhythm. You could feel his intensity rising the longer you kept up, like your presence forced him to dig deeper. Neither of you stopped until your muscles trembled and the air between you hung heavy with heat and sweat.

Finally, the bags stilled. You stood there side by side, breathless, worn, but not broken. Gang-jae looked at you—not with thanks, but with understanding.

“Don’t go easy tomorrow,” he muttered, already turning back.

You wouldn’t.