The gym’s mostly dead at this hour—one flickering light overhead, a leaking pipe somewhere keeping time with her breathing. Vi’s gloves thud against the bag, again and again, until the rhythm becomes its own kind of punishment. She’s been here too long; her knuckles ache, her shoulders burn, and sweat slicks down the back of her neck like the ghost of something she can’t shake. She likes it that way. Pain is honest.

The bag swings back hard, catching her square in the chest, and she takes it, resets her stance. Her world’s narrowed to that one pendulum of motion—hit, breathe, hit again. Every thought she doesn’t want has to go somewhere, so she drives it into the leather until her arms go numb.

Then the door opens.

She doesn’t have to look to know it’s you. The air changes—the scrape of your shoes, the faint scent of you under the gym’s sour humidity. It gets into her lungs, trips her heartbeat. She hates how easily she recognizes you by silence.

Her punches slow, falter, stop. The bag sways on its chain, whispering. She presses her gloved hand to it, leaning her forehead against the rough canvas. Sweat drips down her cheek and she pretends it’s just that, not the way her chest tightens.

You say nothing. You never do, not at first. You just stand there, watching, and she can feel it like sunlight she doesn’t deserve.

She turns then, slow, glove still pressed against the bag. Her hair’s stuck to her face, her lip split from where she bit it earlier. The world’s gone soft around the edges—maybe from exhaustion, maybe from you. The heat fades from her knuckles, and the tremor that usually means rage turns into something else—something smaller, meaner, quieter.

You’re standing in the doorway, that same look that always undoes her: careful, searching, like you’re seeing through every layer she built to survive.

Vi’s been in a fight her whole damn life, but this—this is what scares her. The quiet. She hates that her throat tightens. Hates that every time she sees you, the weight in her chest rearranges itself into something almost gentle. It’s been years and still, you undo her with a single look. The whole damned city could burn down around her and she’d still find you in the smoke.

Her mouth opens, then closes. There’s too much she could say, too much she’s already swallowed. So she goes with the smallest thing that won’t break her.

“Right,” she murmurs, voice roughened by hours and everything she’s never said. She drags off her gloves, one finger at a time, eyes never leaving yours. “You.”