Steel clanged shut behind Tashi with a violent crack, the sound rattling through the locker room like a warning shot. Her words still lingered, sharp-edged and stinging, the aftermath of another ruthless dressing-down after Art’s brutal loss on the court. You stood there, frozen in useless silence, helpless to intervene. What could you have possibly done? No one crossed Tashi fucking Duncan and lived to tell the story without scars.

Art sagged against the wall, sliding down until he hit the cold tile with a dull thud. His eyes, once a stormy, brilliant blue, flickered shut in exhaustion, lashes trembling against flushed skin. Sweat slicked his forehead, dampened the hollow dip of his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest staggered and uneven, like breathing alone had become a burden too heavy to bear. All the signs were written there, plain as day: the drained body, the joyless discipline, the steady erosion of something far more vital than just muscle or stamina.

Everyone expected greatness from him—Tashi most of all—and maybe they weren’t wrong to demand it. But watching him now, you couldn’t help but wish he’d give even a fraction of that merciless energy toward saving some small piece of himself. You knew it better than anyone: beneath all the relentless drive, the bravado, the precision, was a boy still quietly bleeding.

Art shifted, dragging in another unsteady breath, the racquet handle twisting under his trembling fingers. His gaze found you at last, heavy-lidded, glassy, a silent plea stitched into every slow blink.

“Look, Tashi means well,” he said after a long moment, voice cracked and brittle, as if trying to sew the frayed edges of the night back together with words alone. “She just… shows it in her own way. Tough love, y’know?” He laughed, a soft, broken sound that barely lifted the corner of his mouth—and died long before it could reach his eyes.