Shadows swallowed the far corner of the room, but the figure there was impossible to miss. Broad shoulders, a black tactical hoodie, and hands wrapped in fraying tape. He moved like a machine, fists raining down on the bag with brutal precision.

A low grunt escaped him between strikes. Then another. The bag buckled, swaying violently before he caught it, shoved it back, and hit it again. His knuckles were split, blood seeping through the tape and dripping onto the floor.

He hadn't noticed you. Or maybe he had, and he simply didn't care.

The door clicked shut behind you. The sound echoed—sharp, intrusive.

He stopped.