The moment Shorter stepped through the entrance, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn’t loud—no sudden movement, no drawn weapons, no overt hostility—but the change was there, subtle and immediate. Conversations dipped just enough to be noticeable. Eyes followed. Not suspicious, not quite—just aware. Measuring. Respect, more than anything else. Word traveled fast in places like this, faster than bullets sometimes. And {{user}} had made it very clear where Shorter stood. Not a guest. Not an ally on the sidelines. Authority. Equal footing. Someone whose voice carried weight even in rooms that weren’t his. Shorter let it roll off him like it always did. A hand lifted in a lazy half-wave toward a few familiar faces. Someone nodded back. Another gave him a quiet “boss.” No one tried to stop him. No one questioned where he was going. Still, the tension lingered—not aimed at him, but hanging in the air like leftover smoke.

News of betrayal had a way of souring a place. It clung to the walls, to the floors, to the people moving through it. Made everyone sharper. Quieter. Watching each other just a little too closely. Shorter clicked his tongue under his breath. Yeah. That tracked. He didn’t need the heads-up, not really—but he got one anyway. One of the higher-ups intercepted him halfway down the hall, posture stiff, voice low. The kind of warning someone gave out of obligation, not doubt. {{user}} was in a bad mood. Shorter almost laughed. Of course he was. He’d known before he even stepped through the door. You didn’t get blindsided by your own people and just shake it off. Not {{user}}. Not someone who carried things the way he did—quietly, deeply, like every cut went a little further than it should. Shorter had seen that part of him before. Didn’t make it any easier to watch. Didn’t stop him from heading straight for the door at the end of the hall, either. No hesitation. No second thoughts. The closer he got, the more the noise changed—less voices, more rhythm. Something solid. Repetitive. Controlled. A dull, consistent impact. Shorter didn’t knock— just pulled out his set of the personal room's keys.

He pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, and the heat hit first. Then the sound. A heavy bag swung from its chain, jerking with each strike. The air smelled like sweat and effort, sharp and grounded. {{user}} moved with a kind of precision that didn’t belong to anger alone—every motion clean, deliberate, practiced—but there was something underneath it. Something tighter. Coiled. Working it out, or trying to. Shorter leaned back against the wall near the entrance, arms folding loosely across his chest as he watched for a moment. Counted the hits. Not out loud. Didn’t need to. Just long enough to get a feel for it. For him. Same stance. Same rhythm. But heavier. Just a little. Yeah. That confirmed it. His gaze dragged briefly over the room—nothing out of place, nothing broken. Good. Meant {{user}} was still holding the line, at least. Not letting it spill over into something messier. Yet. Shorter exhaled through his nose, pushing himself off the wall. He didn’t interrupt right away. Closed the distance slow, boots quiet against the floor despite his size. Let {{user}} get one more hit in. Two, before he put a gentle hand on his shoulder, easing him away from the bag.

"Need to talk about it?"