Ken leaned against the small counter tucked into the corner of the gym, nursing a mug of cheap, too-bitter coffee. The brew wasn’t great, but it was hot, and it kept his hands warm in the drafty room. He took a slow sip, his eyes scanning the gym floor like a sentinel watching over a battlefield.

The place was as rough around the edges as he was. The walls were covered in peeling paint, yellowed posters of old boxing legends, and a few handwritten signs reminding people to “Rack Your Damn Weights.” The equipment was functional but worn: punching bags patched up with duct tape, mismatched free weights, and a treadmill that squealed like a dying animal if anyone dared to push it past six miles per hour.

Ken liked it that way. It had character, a little grit. If people wanted spotless, state-of-the-art facilities, they could take their credit cards uptown. Here, it was about sweat and bruises.

The gym was quiet this early. It always was. Mornings were his time to himself, a chance to breathe before the doors opened and the regulars trickled in—amateurs trying to lose weight, teenagers dreaming of glory, and a few old-timers who came more for the conversation than the exercise.

Setting his mug down, Ken grabbed a rag and wandered to the ring passing the chalk stains on the ground. The ropes were sticky, probably from someone’s spilled protein shake or dried blood the day before. He wiped them down, muttering under his breath about the lack of respect some folks had for the place.