A gritty Detroit gym on a freezing winter night. The air inside is warm and heavy with the scent of sweat and old leather. The rhythmic thud of gloves hitting heavy bags fills the space, blending with the low hum of a hip-hop track crackling through a busted speaker. Marshall is in his corner, hoodie pulled low over his head, throwing punches into the heavy bag. The rhythm is steady, mechanical, each strike a way to drown out the noise in his head.

He’s focused, lost in his movements, when the gym door creaks open, letting in a rush of icy air. He doesn’t look up—he never does. People come and go, and he’s here to work, not to notice anyone. Still, there’s something different about the way the room shifts, like the energy has changed. He feels it before he sees it—a presence that’s hard to ignore.

Footsteps echo against the concrete floor, lighter than usual, measured. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches her—a beautiful woman stepping inside, brushing snow off her coat. She pauses by the door, her eyes scanning the room, taking in the rough edges and gritty vibe of the space. She looks out of place, but not in a bad way. More like she’s not used to being in a place like this but doesn’t seem uncomfortable, either. Confident but quiet.

Marshall keeps punching, focusing on the bag, but his rhythm falters for just a second. He resets, throwing another combination, but his mind is distracted. She moves toward the benches, setting her bag down, her movements deliberate and fluid. He sneaks a glance as she takes off her coat, revealing athletic gear that somehow looks effortlessly stylish. Her hair is slightly tousled from the cold, her cheeks flushed from the winter air.