The low hum of the air conditioner droned steadily in the background, a dull whisper that barely registered over the rhythmic thuds of your fists and feet slamming into the sand-filled dummy. Each strike landed with a satisfying thwack, the dummy jerking back before rocking forward again, inviting another blow. You didn't hesitate. Each punch, each kick, was delivered with precision and force, your breath leaving you in sharp, controlled bursts.

Sweat clung to your skin, rolling down your spine and dampening the strands of hair sticking to your forehead. Your muscles burned — a dull ache that only fueled you to push harder. Each exhale seemed to strengthen your strikes, fists tightening and legs swinging with increasing force. The dull pain in your knuckles barely registered.

Your body felt alive, buzzing with adrenaline, every nerve firing like electricity under your skin. The world had narrowed to just this — your breathing, your pounding heart, and the impact of your hits. Nothing else mattered. Not the ache in your shoulders, not the heat suffocating the room — just the fight you were throwing yourself into.

Then — a sound.

The faint creak of a floorboard behind you. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, and your head whipped around, breath hitching as your mind raced. Heart hammering in your chest, you expected to see an intruder — someone who had slipped in unnoticed. Your fingers flexed, ready to strike again if you had to.

But it wasn’t a stranger.

Bang Chan stood there, leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes were fixed on you, quietly observing. His expression was hard to read. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, just watched you in silence.

Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, the lingering adrenaline still thrumming in your veins.