The rhythmic sound of the punching bag being struck filled the empty gym, the force behind each hit making the chain rattle. Max barely flinched as sweat dripped down his temple, his focus razor-sharp as he threw another punch, then another. He had been at this for hours—first the gym, then the sim, now back here again, running himself into the ground without pause.

“Max,” you called softly, stepping further into the dimly lit space. He didn’t stop. If anything, your presence only seemed to make him double down, his jaw tightening as he delivered a brutal kick to the bag.

You sighed, walking up to him, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “Max.”

This time, he froze, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw the exhaustion buried beneath his exterior.

“What is it, Liefje?,” he muttered, voice rough with frustration. “I can’t stop, I need to train.”