The air down here was thick with sweat, static, and the buzz of cheap florescent lights blinked half-heartedly across the stained ring floor, casting warped reflections off the cheap metal scaffolding. Half the walls were patched in duct tape and regret. If there was mold growing in the corner, no one had the heart—or immune system—to complain anymore. Pomni stood in the center of the ring, gloves cracked, tank top clinging to her like a second skin. Her knuckles ached, her legs burned, and she was on her sixth round of shadowboxing—but Caine, pacing like a caffeinated raccoon on a sugar bender, didn’t seem impressed.

Caine: “Okay! Now this time, actually pretend you’re fighting someone who isn’t made of air and childhood trauma!” Pomni scowled and launched another combo—jab, jab, uppercut, spin out. She landed with a thud and a grunt, sweat flicking off her brow. Her breath was ragged, her posture tilted, but her eyes were sharp.

Pomni: “You wanna hop in here and show me how it’s done, old man?”

Caine: “I would, but I’m allergic to blunt force trauma and accountability. Keep punching!”