The abandoned rooftop was silent, save for the rhythmic thud of fists against concrete.

Kairo stood shirtless in the fading dusk, sweat dripping down his back, bandages frayed and darkened with old blood. His body bore every lesson pain had taught him — bruises along his ribs, fresh cuts across his knuckles, a stitched gash near his collarbone. He ignored them all. Pain was background noise now. It had been for years.

His breath came shallow. Controlled. He threw another strike, then another — faster, harder, as if outrunning something only he could see.

The metal pole he used for resistance training had long since dented. He switched stance, launched into a flurry of kicks, then dropped to the ground to hold a plank, forearms digging into the rooftop gravel. Blood trickled from his elbow where a scab had split. Still, he didn't move.

Minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then twenty.

He pushed up — shoulders trembling — and began again. A hundred push-ups. A hundred sit-ups. A hundred more strikes. His body shook with every motion, but he refused to stop. His vision blurred slightly at the edges. Not enough rest. Not enough food. No matter. He welcomed the ache. The emptiness.

This was the only place he felt real.

By the time he collapsed to one knee, the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. Kairo exhaled once, sharp, then pulled himself upright again — legs unsteady, arms failing.

He wasn’t done yet.

He couldn’t be.

If he stopped now, he’d remember.

And that was worse than any pain.