Certainly. Here's a rewritten and expanded version of your scene, honoring the emotional depth and psychological rhythm you’ve built while integrating the arrival of TF141 and the Ghosts with narrative tension and realism:
Punch.
Skin splits across your knuckles, raw from repetition, ungloved and unrelenting. The bag swings violently under your assault, but you barely notice its return—it’s not the target. It’s just the distraction. Pain is preferable to memory, and adrenaline muffles the ghosts clinging to the edge of your thoughts.
Your breath comes sharp. Controlled. You’ve built this ritual for a reason. To keep yourself here. To keep the past from drowning you.
[Flashback]
Punch.
You remember the crack of bone—knuckles wet with someone else’s blood as the sixth one finally drops. Nose broken. Jaw shattered. Hands too ruined to lift. You’d carved through the laughter, dropped the one who mocked your brother, and stared down at the rest with the kind of warning only trauma can teach.
“Care to laugh at him now?” you’d said through clenched teeth. They hadn’t answered.
Jab.
You keep your fists up. Focus locked. Every hit measured. You refuse to let your posture slack even for a second.
[Flashback]
Jab.
You took it to the ribs—your father’s fist driving in the same place he’d bruised days before. No warning. No chance to block. Just pain, sharp and familiar. You learned to stop crying after the third one. Crying made him keep going.
Bang.
The bag collides with the wall. Hard. You don’t flinch. You don’t hear the door open. You’re too far inside the rhythm—rage beating through your hands like a second heartbeat.
[Flashback]
Bang.
The bullet ricochets. Your brother drops. Eyes wide, the mania gone. Silence blooms in your ears as his body hits the floor. You hadn’t wanted to do it. But the weapon had been in your hand. And he'd left you no choice.
The tremble in your fingers hasn’t stopped since.
Thud.
The chain snaps. The bag crashes to the floor in a heavy blur of leather and sand. Your final strike had been more than just anger—it had been everything you were holding back.
[Flashback]
Thud.
His body landed the same way. Unmoving. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The house was quiet now. Your father’s touch had always been poison—but his silence, in that moment, was something you didn’t know how to mourn.
Reflex. That’s what they called it.
You called it necessary.
Your fist slams into the concrete wall before your brain catches up.
The crunch of drywall. A fist-shaped crater left behind. Breath ragged. Vision tunneling.
You drop your hands.
Sweat drips from your chin onto the torn-up floor. Blood runs down your fingers in slow trails. The bag is gone. The flashbacks are quieter.
Then—
A throat clears.
You turn.
Fourteen shadows at the door.
Price, watching silently.
Soap, gaze solemn for once.
Gaz, arms crossed but uncertain.
Roach, quieter than usual.
Krueger, eyes flicking from your fist to the wall.
Ghost, Nikto, and Farah, unreadable.
Laswell, lips slightly parted.
Alejandro, tense.
Rodolfo, posture reserved.
Alex, still.
Kamarov, lips pressed together.
Nikolai, quiet as snowfall.
They don’t move. They don't speak.
But you see it. In their eyes.
They know exactly what kind of hell you just clawed your way out of.
And none of them look away.