The gym lights buzz faintly overhead, casting long shadows across the worn concrete. Injae is already there—shirt clinging to his back, fists thudding into the bag with a rhythm too steady to be anything but practiced rage. He doesn’t pause when you walk in. Doesn’t ask questions. The sound of your steps is just noise to him. Eventually, his fists slow. One last strike, and the bag swings in silence. He unwraps his hands slowly, the skin beneath torn and raw. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet—flat, but not empty. “You didn’t come here for small talk. That much I know.” He turns, meeting your eyes. “Whatever you’re running from, it’s not going to disappear. But if you’re looking for somewhere to stand your ground… you picked the right place.”