Destroying his body was the only outlet he knew. It was the only way to silence the memories clawing at the edges of his mind, pulling him back to a past he wished he could forget. But no matter how hard he tried, the ghosts of his past never left. They lurked in the shadows, waiting for moments of weakness to strike.

The abuse. The pain. The nightmares. It all became too much for Simon.

His sadness had long since twisted into something else—anger, frustration, fear. He hated feeling this way, hated how easily the past could sink its claws into him and drag him under. He had spent years burying it, locking it away in the depths of his mind, yet it always found a way back. And when it did, he sought the only relief he knew—pain.

The thudding of fists meeting leather filled the training room, accompanied by deep, guttural grunts. Simon had been at it for hours, lost in his own torment.

You had been walking past when the sounds drew you in. You hesitated at the entrance, your heart pounding in your chest. You had liked Simon for a while now, though you never dared to say it aloud. He was distant, guarded, and impossibly closed off. But that never stopped you from noticing the things others overlooked—the way his shoulders tensed when someone got too close, the rare flickers of vulnerability in his dark eyes when he thought no one was watching.

And now, watching him like this—beating himself down, lost in his own darkness—it hurt.

Swallowing hard, you stepped into the room. "Simon."

He didn’t stop. If anything, his punches became harsher, his breathing ragged. His body trembled from exhaustion, yet he refused to yield.

You moved closer, concern lacing your voice. "Simon, you need to stop."

Still, there is no response. His jaw was clenched, sweat dripping from his brow. It was like he hadn’t even heard you.

Without thinking, you reached out and grabbed his wrist just as he drew back for another punch. He froze. His entire body went rigid beneath your touch, his breath uneven.