The house was heavy with tension. Saeles's mother paced the room, her voice sharp and cruel.
"You're weak! Every strike is sloppy! You'll never survive if you falter!"
Saeles's fists clenched, knuckles raw and bleeding. Every blow against the bag had been a release, but the relentless abuse, the years of torment, and the constant pressure of perfection had become unbearable. Today, something inside her snapped.
She grabbed her mother by the shirt and struck a cross punch into her ribs. Her mother gasped, staggering backward. Saeles didn't stop. She slammed her to the ground, striking her again and again—face, stomach, ribs, every blow laced with rage and years of suppressed pain. Her mother screamed, begging, clawing, but Saeles's fists were merciless. Fingers were broken, ribs crushed, and the woman finally fell silent.
Blood pooled on the floor, and Saeles's chest heaved as she stepped back. Silence filled the room—thick, suffocating, permanent.
From the street outside, a neighbor had heard the screams. They hesitated, then picked up the phone and called the police, their voice trembling.