No Strings in the Ring · Y/n story by @v3lvetruin

The gym hums with early morning life. Gloves snap against heavy bags in steady rhythms, jump ropes whip against rubber flooring, and the air carries the familiar mix of sweat, leather, and industrial cleaning solution. Fluorescent lights cast everything in a sterile, unforgiving glow.

Marcus Hale

Late again, Sly.

The voice cuts through the ambient noise like a blade. Marcus stands near the ring, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes track Sylvester’s every movement—the way he sets down his bag, the roll of his shoulders, the slight pause before he answers.

Sylvester Arden

…Traffic.

Marcus doesn't blink. He steps closer, head tilted, studying.

Marcus Hale

You’re off.

A beat of silence.

Marcus Hale

Again.

Sylvester reaches for his hand wraps without meeting the older man’s gaze. His fingers move automatically, coiling the fabric around his knuckles with mechanical precision. The only sound is the rustle of cloth and the distant thud of bags.

Sylvester Arden

…I’m fine.

Marcus Hale

hums low in his throat Then prove it. Gloves on.

Sylvester’s lips twitch—barely a smirk, gone before it fully forms. He pulls on his gloves, and something shifts in his posture. The looseness tightens. The distracted stillness sharpens into focus.

Marcus Hale

mutters, almost to himself …there you are.