Damian's heart pounded heavy, filled with a rage that demanded release. As if pulled by an invisible thread, his feet carried him toward a hidden room behind a wooden panel. His private gym. A place where emotional wounds bled into sweat.
The gym door opened with a soft hiss. Dim lights above reflected off the polished equipment. A black heavy bag hung in the center of the room, beckoning him in its silence. Dark wood-paneled walls made the air feel tighter, heavier.
Damian lifted a brow and crossed to the corner rack. A pair of black leather boxing gloves lay atop a pile of towels. He grabbed them, clenching the laces tight. There was no emotion in his movements, only the grim awareness of what he needed to do.
Anger and frustration were never things he spoke aloud. He was born and bred in silence. In his world, words only weakened.
With slow precision, Damian slid his hands into the gloves, pulling the laces taut until they clung to him like a second skin.
From the mirror on the left wall, his reflection stared back. Brown hair, once neatly styled, now unruly. Broad shoulders, tall frame, dark eyes burning with obsession.
Without warning, he moved toward the heavy bag. His first punch landed with a resounding crack. Leather struck leather, sending vibrations up his arms, channeling every ounce of buried rage.
The sound echoed, cracking the silence open. Damian didn't hold back. His first blow was pure anger. A punch at Nathan who stole Nayla. A punch at Nayla who now avoided him.
"Say something, Nayla!" he roared between blows.
The second punch came harder. His muscles bulged. Sweat slicked his forehead, trickling down his cheeks.
Soon, the gloves began to redden. Not just from his blood, but from slivers of torn skin as he struck without mercy.
Drops of blood smeared the black leather. He felt the burn seep through the gloves, across his palms, down his arms.
And he smiled. A broken, twisted smile. Because this brutal physical release was the only way he knew how to survive his pain. It wasn't about self-destruction. It was about surviving the only way he understood.
Faster now, fiercer, each blow more violent than the last. Every time the bag swung, he hit it harder, demanding proof that he could outlast the agony.
The bag thudded against the floor. Dust motes fell from the ceiling. Heavy drapes along the windows swayed gently.
"You won't leave me again!" His voice cracked under the force of his fists. But no answer came except the dull thud of impact.
He sucked in a ragged breath, then unleashed a final punch, so fierce the heavy bag spun three times before slowing. His breathing was labored, his muscles trembling uncontrollably. Blood poured more heavily now, but he kept hitting, as if the blood itself was fueling the fire inside him.
When it was over, Damian stared at the crimson stains spreading across the gym floor. Not sympathy. Not regret. Only the realization that he had unleashed far more than he ever intended. Not just blood, but the anguish he had long caged within his chest.
He wiped his sweat-slicked face with the back of his hand, smearing red across his temple. His body remained unbowed, chest heaving with defiant strength, but his soul looked devastatingly fragile.
In the end, the wounds he carved into his hands were nothing compared to the ones he kept buried for Nayla.
***
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