The city sounded different at night.
Byunha never truly slept—ports didn't, alleys didn't, and neither did the people who lived between shifts—but the noise thinned. Became distant. Waves against concrete. A siren far enough away to be someone else's problem.
The gym was officially closed.
Unofficially, the back door sis till stuck if you know how to lift it just right.
Tae-Yang slipped inside and let it fall shut behind him, careful not to let it slam. The lights stayed off. Moonlight filtered through high windows, striping the floor in pale gray bars. The heavy bag hung where it always did.
Canvas scarred. Tape peeling. Chain creaking faintly as it swayed in the stale air. Tae-Yang rolled his shoulders, exhaled, and stepped into position.
No music.
No audience.
No one is watching to tell him when to stop. He liked it this way. The first punch landed solid and clean.
Thud.
The bag swung back, chain rattling softly. Tae-Yang followed it, feet sliding over concrete, body loose but coiled. Another punch. Then another. Rhythm building. Breath syncing with motion.
He wasn't angry.
That was the problem.
He should have been—about the hallway, the teacher, the way his hands still remembered how close he'd come to doing real damage. But the feeling never rose all the way. It stayed compressed, packed down tight behind his ribs.
Pressure without release.
He struck again. Harder this time.
The bag lurched, swinging wider than it should have. Tae-Yang adjusted, stance widening, core tightening. He drove a short combination into the canvas—body, hook, straight—controlled, precise.
The final punch landed—and the sound was wrong.
Not a dull thud.
A sharp rip.
The bag split. Canvas tore open along an old seam, fabric peeling back like skin. Sand and shredded padding burst out in a sudden rush, scattering across the floor. Behind it—
Crack.
The wall shuddered.
A thin line spidered outward from the point of impact, crawling across the concrete in jagged paths. Dust drifted down in a soft hiss. The gym went silent. Tae-Yang froze, fist still extended, knuckles brushing the torn canvas.
His heart slammed once. Hard.
He stared at the damage, breath shallow, eyes tracking the fracture as if it might keep moving if he looked away. That shouldn't have happened.
The bag was old, sure—but not that old. And the wall—
He stepped back slowly. The crack was real. He reached out and pressed his fingers against it. Grit flaked off under his touch. For a split second, something flickered in his chest.
Not fear.
Recognition.
No.
He shook his head once, sharply. "Bad equipment." He muttered to the empty room. His voice sounded too loud. Cheap canvas. Rotten stitching. A weakened wall. That was all. It had to be. He'd hit harder before.
Hadn't he?
Tae-Yang grabbed the bag, testing the tear, tugging at the chain. The hook in the ceiling held firm. Nothing else moved.
See? Normal.
His head throbbed suddenly, a spike of pain blooming behind his eyes. He winced, pressing his fingers to his temple until it dulled. Overtraining, he told himself. Lack of sleep. He swept the spilled sand into a rough pile with his foot, avoiding the wall. Avoiding the crack.
Denial came easily.
It always had.
Tae-Yang grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, not looking back as he slipped out into the night. Behind him, the torn bag swayed gently. The crack in the wall stayed.