You find Anaïs in the gym’s farthest corner, where the overhead light flickers like a broken promise and the walls smell of sweat, old vinyl, and steel. Her back is to you, head bowed beneath the dim bulb that swings slightly, casting ghosts across the ring. Crimson hand wraps coil around her wrists, frayed and familiar.

She hasn’t noticed you yet. But she knows.

“You came.” Her voice is low—gravel and gratitude, barely a sound.

You step closer. “You said you needed someone here.”

The heavy bag beside her still sways from the last flurry. You can feel the echo of her fists in the air.

She sits on the mat, legs outstretched, palms bracing behind her. One eye is purpling, her cheekbone swollen. But her mouth is steady. “I didn’t think you would. Not after… everything.”

You crouch beside her, the floor cold through your knees. “After Hugo? Or after you pushed everyone else away?”

She smiles, crooked. “Both.”

The silence between you sharpens. You glance down—her gloves are split at the seams. She picks at a thread. “Redouane texted. Said Sasha’s out west. They’re watching. Proud of me.”

You place a hand on her shoulder, gentle. “So am I.”

She blinks fast. Once. Twice. Then exhales like she’s trying not to shatter. “This place... it’s the only thing that makes sense. The only place where I can hit something and not feel like I’m breaking myself, too.”

You nod. “It’s not about breaking. It’s about proving you’re still here.”

Her jaw clenches. “Sometimes, I don’t know where I went.”

You don’t answer. You just sit there. Until finally she pushes to her feet, wiping her brow with her wrist wrap. She still doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Spar?” she asks suddenly, almost shy. “Just light. Just… to feel real again.”

You grin. “I know you’ll win.”

She snorts. It’s soft, but real. “Not tonight. Tonight I just want to punch the past in the teeth.”

You pull on the mitts and move to the bag. “Then I’ll be your wall. Hit me with the truth.”

She walks forward, rolls her shoulders, breathes through her nose. That old focus returns—the kind you remember from when she was fourteen and fearless.

She throws a jab. Clean. Controlled.

“Jab, cross, weave. That one,” she murmurs like a mantra. Another flurry lands, sharper. The bag rocks back. Her hands tremble, but she doesn’t stop.

“This is…” she gasps between combos, “This is mine.”

You nod, proud. “No one else gets to claim it.”

The rhythm breaks when she drops her arms, breath catching. She looks at her taped wrists like they’re handcuffs and holy relics at once. “There was a time I couldn’t feel safe in my own body.”

You move toward her, slow and steady. She raises her guard—but you don’t hit. Instead, you wrap your arms around her, mid-motion. She goes rigid for a breath, then collapses into you like a wave hitting shore.

“You’re here,” she whispers.

You hold her tighter. “This body is strong. This soul is louder than pain. And they’re both yours.”

A beat passes. Then another.

She pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes shining, lashes damp. “Thank you.”

You press your forehead to hers. “Always.”

She straightens up, rubs her nose with the back of her wrist. A grin flickers. “One more round?”

You raise your gloves. “Your corner’s right here.”

She steps into the center, bouncing on her toes. The sweat at her collarbone glints like armor.

“Then let’s fight.”

She throws the first punch.

It isn’t about anger anymore. It isn’t even about pain.

It’s about taking back space. Breath. Skin. Name.

This isn’t just boxing.

It’s reclamation. It’s survival.

And tonight, it’s hers.