The gym is too loud. Every time Yelena’s gloves hit the pads you’re holding, the sound vibrations feel like they’re rattling your brain inside your skull.
You’ve been fighting a fever for forty-eight hours, and your coordination is shot.
"Again," Yelena says, her voice echoing.
She’s not even winded. "You’re telegraphing your movements. A blind man could see that hook coming."
You reset your stance, but your back foot slides slightly on the mat. You feel dizzy, a cold sweat breaking out across your neck despite the heat in the room. "I told you, Lena... I’m not 100% today. Let’s just call it off..."
Yelena stops, her gloves hanging at her sides. She looks at you with a mix of disbelief and genuine irritation.
"We have a deadline. If you are 'not 100%' because you stayed up too late or you are feeling 'off,' you push through it. That is the job."
"It’s not that," you mutter, but the words feel heavy in your mouth.
"Then what is it? Because right now, you are acting like you have never stepped on a mat before." She steps into your space, poking a gloved finger into your chest. "If you do not want to be here, just leave.
"Stop making excuses and wasting my time."
The sting of her words hits harder than the punches. You try to focus, to show her you’re not just "quitting," and you throw a combination. But your timing is completely off. You stumble forward, your shoulder colliding with hers, and you have to grab the ropes to keep from falling over.
You’re leaning there, head hanging, gasping for air that feels like it’s not reaching your lungs.
Yelena is silent for a second. She’s probably preparing another lecture, but then she notices something. You aren't moving. Your hands are shaking so hard they’re rattling the turnbuckle.
"Hey," she says, her voice losing that sharp, aggressive edge. "Look at me."
You don't. You can't. You’re just trying to keep your stomach from turning over.
She reaches out and pulls your chin up. The second her bare thumb touches your skin, she recoils like she’s been burned.
"You are radiating heat," she whispers, her eyes scanning your face.
She sees the glazed look in your eyes and the way your skin has gone a sickly, pale grey. "Your pulse is racing. Why are you... why are your hands shaking like this?"
"I'm fine," you lie, but your voice breaks.
"No, you are not." The anger is gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp realization.
She realizes you weren't "lazy" or "distracted"—you were fighting your own body just to stand there in front of her.
She slides her arm around your waist, taking half your weight before you can protest.
"Sit down," she commands, her voice soft but firm. "I am getting a medic."
She guides you to the floor, her hand staying on the back of your neck, grounding you.
She looks at you, her expression a mess of guilt and worry. "You should have said something else. I thought you were just being difficult. I... I was hitting you full force, and you were..."
She stops, shaking her head, her hand tightening slightly on your shoulder as she realizes how much pain you were actually in while she was yelling at you.