The punching bag rocked with every strike, the chain above it groaning under the force. Chris barely heard it. His focus was on his form, his stance—power through the legs, controlled rotation, drive the fist forward. His knuckles stung inside the wraps, a steady ache that he welcomed. Pain meant progress. Pain meant he was still pushing.

He exhaled sharply, a bead of sweat slipping from his temple as he delivered a sharp right cross, followed by a quick hook. The impact reverberated up his arm. Good. He needed to be sharper, stronger. S.T.A.R.S. didn’t allow room for mistakes.

The training room smelled of old sweat and rubber mats, a scent he’d grown used to over the years. It clung to his skin, mixing with the heat rolling off him in waves. His black tank top was already damp, sticking uncomfortably to his back, but he ignored it. He wasn’t done yet. He stepped back, rolling his shoulders, shaking out his arms. Breath in. Hold. Exhale. Then back into it.

One-two. Elbow. Pivot. His boots squeaked against the mat as he shifted his weight, slamming his heel into the bag in a powerful side kick. His heart pounded, his muscles burned, but it still wasn’t enough.

Barry would probably tell him to take it easy, go grab a beer. Jill would just shake her head, maybe a smile. But that wasn’t how Chris operated, downtime didn’t sit right with him. If he wasn’t improving, he was wasting time.

His fists clenched as he took his stance again. Wesker had been running them harder lately, drills tightening, expectations higher. Something was coming. He could feel it in the way the captain spoke, in the way he watched them during training.