[Three Months Later]
The heavy bag snapped sideways from the impact of Alan's fist before swinging back toward him on rattling chains.
The moment it returned, he stepped in again. His right shoulder rotated sharply as another punch buried deep into the center of the bag. The force traveled through his taped knuckles and up along his forearm, sending a dull sting through muscles already pushed past exhaustion. Sweat flew from his jawline and scattered across the mat beneath his shoes.
The gym echoed with the constant rhythm of impact and movement. Alan barely noticed it anymore. His breathing came hard through his nose while he circled the bag with quick, practiced footwork — one step forward, pivot, weight transfer, then another strike. His shoes dragged faintly against the floor as he repositioned himself before driving a fresh combination into the hanging target.
The bag swung harder this time. Alan followed it immediately instead of letting it reset. A left hand slammed into the side before his elbow crashed against the surface right after. The chains above groaned from the repeated force while the entire mount shook slightly overhead.
His arms burned. His shoulders felt heavy. The skin beneath the hand wraps had already split open earlier, and fresh blood slowly soaked through the white tape around his knuckles. Every strike reopened the damage little by little. He kept going anyway.
Another punch landed. Then another. His breathing lost rhythm for a second after a hard body shot into the lower half of the bag forced pain through his wrist. Alan stepped back instinctively, flexed his fingers once, and immediately moved forward again without giving himself time to recover properly.
Sweat rolled from his forehead into his eyes while his shirt clung tightly against his back and chest. The muscles along his arms twitched under the strain each time he extended another strike. His lungs felt raw. His legs had grown heavier nearly twenty minutes ago. He ignored all of it.
The bag swung toward him again. Alan slipped to the side and drove a hook into it hard enough to send it twisting violently on its chains. The impact forced a rough breath from his chest while his planted foot slid several inches across the mat from the recoil.
His body reacted slower now. Fatigue was catching up. His left arm dropped half a second lower than it should have before he corrected the mistake. His footwork tightened — less bounce, more drag. His shoulders rose slightly from exhaustion. But the punches still kept coming.
Three months ago he would have collapsed long before this point. Now he forced himself through it. Again. And again. And again.
The memory of that hallway stayed buried underneath every movement. The laughter. The phones recording him. Mark standing over him while everybody watched.
Alan suddenly drove both fists into the heavy bag with shortened, brutal strikes that shook the entire chain mount overhead.
"You think you matter?"
Mark's voice replayed clearly inside his head.
Another punch landed.
"You are a pathetic powerless little fuck."
Alan's breathing turned rougher. His punches lost some technique, turning uglier and heavier from raw emotion. The bag slammed back into him from the rebound and nearly knocked him off balance, but he planted his feet harder and shoved forward with another combination.
Sweat dripped from his chin onto the floor nonstop. His forearms trembled each time he reset his stance. Still he refused to stop.
Finally, after another hard right hand sent pain shooting through his swollen knuckles, Alan staggered back several steps from the bag. His chest heaved violently while his lungs struggled to pull in enough air. For a moment he simply stood there bent slightly forward with both hands resting on his thighs. Sweat poured from his face onto the mats below.
The entire gym smelled of iron, rubber, old sweat, and worn leather.
Alan slowly straightened up despite the soreness crawling through nearly every muscle. His arm twitched faintly when he lifted it to wipe sweat from his eyes. Then he looked toward the mirror across the gym. His reflection stared back. He wasn't bigger or monstrous, but he looked different. His posture stood firmer now. His shoulders no longer slouched inward automatically. The hesitation that once lived in his movements had mostly disappeared. Even standing still, he looked harder to push around.
The bruised kid from that hallway barely existed anymore.
Alan grabbed the towel hanging near the bench and dragged it across his face before wiping down the back of his neck. His breathing gradually steadied. Then he stopped moving entirely as the memories returned.
John's knee driving into his stomach. His body folding helplessly in front of everyone. Mark grabbing him by the collar while students laughed nearby.
"Know your place."
Alan's hand slowly curled tighter around the towel. The muscles along his forearm stiffened visibly.
He kept staring at his reflection for several seconds, jaw tight and eyes narrowed, before finally looking away. The adrenaline that had carried him through the session was fading now. As it drained, exhaustion settled into his body all at once, making his limbs feel twice as heavy.
He walked toward a nearby bench and lowered himself onto it carefully, the simple movement sending fresh aches through his thighs. His elbows rested on his knees while he leaned forward and rubbed both hands across his face, fingers pressing hard into his temples as if trying to push the memories back down.
For a few moments he simply sat there listening to the gym. The chains above the heavy bag still swayed slightly from the punishment they had taken, creaking softly with each pass. Air conditioning hummed somewhere overhead. His own breathing remained the loudest sound in the room, ragged and uneven.
Alan reached for a water bottle beside the bench and twisted the cap off with a slow, deliberate motion. He took several long drinks, throat working visibly, before pouring some over the back of his neck. Cold water ran down his skin and disappeared beneath his soaked shirt, raising goosebumps along his spine.
"Shit..." The word escaped under his breath as he rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly at the pull in his muscles.
Now that he had stopped moving, every injury wanted his attention. His wrists ached with a deep, throbbing heat. His forearms felt heavy and swollen. A dull soreness stretched across his chest and back. Even the muscles around his ribs complained every time he inhaled too deeply, forcing him to take shallower breaths.
Alan set the bottle down and began unwrapping his hands with careful, methodical tugs. The tape peeled away slowly, sticking to the dried blood in places. Fresh blood had soaked through portions of the white wrap. Beneath it, the skin across several knuckles had split open again, raw and glistening. New calluses covered places that used to tear immediately during training.
The injuries looked ugly, but they were different from the hands he had three months ago — stronger, more durable. He rotated his wrist once before flexing his fingers, testing the familiar pain that no longer surprised him. Not pleasant. Just familiar.
Alan leaned back against the bench and turned his head toward the large windows overlooking the property. Beyond the glass, waves rolled steadily onto the shoreline, the late afternoon sun reflecting across the water while palm trees swayed gently in the distance.
Three months ago he would have been sitting in his room feeling sorry for himself. Three months ago he would have made excuses. Three months ago he would have convinced himself there was nothing he could do.
His gaze drifted back toward the heavy bag. The leather surface was marked by sweat, blood, and countless hours of training. A faint smile appeared on his face before disappearing again as he exhaled slowly.
"Still not enough."
He pushed himself back to his feet. His legs protested immediately with sharp stabs of fatigue, but Alan ignored them, just like he always did now. His posture remained straight despite the burn.
"…Never again," he muttered quietly. His voice sounded calmer now. Much more confident, carrying a low, resolved tone that hadn't been there before.
He tossed the towel over his shoulder, grabbed his bag from the bench, and walked toward the gym exit with tired, uneven steps. His body ached from head to toe, but something colder had settled deep inside him. Every bruise from three months ago had healed.
The humiliation had not.