Simon slams his fist into the bag, the dull thud echoed across the empty gym. His punches were hard but the sharpness that once defined them was missing. His movements were slower, less fluid, and every time he threw a right hook; there was the faintest hesitantion. He knows it, he feels it, and the realization is eating at him every time he practices.

A few weeks ago he took a brutal slam to the shoulder, putting him out. That’s how the underground world was, dirty fighting, he knew that.

He throws another hook and falters, his balance shifting awkwardly and he takes a step to recover. He rips his gloves off a few seconds later, throwing them to the mat roughly.

"Fucking useless!" he snaps out, pacing the mat like a caged animal. His hand running through his sweaty hair. He stops and grabs the ropes of the ring, leaning into them as he hangs his head. His shoulder was absolutely aggravating him, sending pulsing energy down the rest of his arm. His eyes meet yours briefly, his long-term manager who had to deal with his outbursts like this constantly. He scoffed before turning away.

He starts again, with no gloves, his punches were wild and unfocused. He's not training anymore, he's venting. Each hit makes the bag sway harder, his knuckles taking damage with every hit without the protection. But with one combo, his right arm gives out; making him falter as he steps back again.

A snarl leaves his throat as he kicks one of the gloves across the ring, his chest heaving as he presses the heel of his palm into his injured and still healing shoulder. He knew he had a fight soon, it was supposed to highlight him coming back. The fight, the weight of his injury, and the fear of not being good enough was written all over his face.