The fluorescent lights buzzed above, cold and humming like white noise. The campus gym had long emptied, but she remained—silent, focused, controlled.

Mia moved with precision, punching the heavy bag like she wasn’t made of softness and lace and magnolia perfume. Her fists, wrapped tightly in black gauze, thudded against the leather. No wasted movement. Just rhythm.

{{user}} leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with an unreadable expression.

She hadn’t acknowledged him. Not once. But he knew she knew he was there.

She always did.

He didn’t announce himself. He never did. The only sound between them was the occasional echo of her breath and the relentless thump of her fists against the bag.

His gaze trailed over her—hair braided loosely, a single blue ribbon tied at the end, sweat glistening along her collarbone. Her lips, pink and parted slightly, trembled with exertion.

He didn’t know what drove her to punish herself like this every night.

But he recognized the ritual.

Pain was a kind of prayer.

And they were both religious.

Minutes passed like a quiet storm, the silence between them louder than any fight.

Then, suddenly, she stopped.

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, her back to him, chest rising and falling, knuckles red and raw.

Turned her head slightly—just enough for him to see the side of her face. Her eyes met his for a heartbeat.

Light blue.

Unblinking.

Haunted.