The punching bag gave a soft thud with every strike, as if it was growing less and less willing to hit back. Lennox Graves's arms moved in tired, mechanical rhythms. One–two, step back, body shot, another hook. The motions were precise—at least for the first few minutes. But something shifted. Sloane watched from the edge of the ring. She saw what no one else would've noticed: the subtle, trembling tension in Lennox's shoulders, the slightly too forceful jab with his left, the delayed rhythm of his recoil.
This wasn't training anymore. This was repressed anger, growing in intensity. Sloane stepped closer. She didn't speak yet. The air pressure seemed to change around them. Lennox didn't notice—or didn't care.
The next punch wasn't about technique. It was about release. The sound was different. The bag thudded sharply, and the chains above it gave a metallic groan as it swung.
"Lennox," Sloane said quietly, but with warning. He didn't react. He just kept hitting.
"Lennox," she repeated, more firmly now. "Stop. This isn't what we agreed on."
The answer was another punch. Even harder. His face didn't show rage—it showed something deeper. Detachment. Blindness. As if something from his past had crawled into the present, and each hit wasn't for the bag, but for something he couldn't forget.
Sloane moved on instinct. She stepped in, trying to steady the bag from the side. One hand reached up to stop it before it swung back toward Lennox—but he was already mid-punch. And then it happened. His left arm, fast, instinctive, uncontrolled... struck her. Not on purpose. But it hit her right on the shoulder. The edge of his glove landed squarely. Her body staggered back a step.
"Damn it," Sloane hissed, grabbing her shoulder reflexively.
The room fell silent. The bag swung wide, then slowly returned to center. Lennox froze mid-motion, his chest heaving, eyes wide.
"You..." he whispered, hoarsely. "I didn't..."
Sloane raised her hand to signal she was okay. But her expression wasn't calm. For the first time, something showed on her face that she usually kept hidden: pain—and beneath it... fear. Not of being hit. But fear that this lived inside him.
Lennox took a step back. His gloves hung limp at his sides, like two heavy, useless weights. The air around him seemed to tremble, and his face had gone paler than anyone had ever seen it.
"I didn't mean to," he said softly. "I swear, Sloane... it wasn't on purpose."
She was still clutching her shoulder. The throbbing was already starting to fade, but her movements were more restrained now. She took a deep breath.
"I know," she said finally, her voice cold and clear. "But it still happened."
Silence. The wall-mounted fan roared to life, as if to remind them the world was still turning. But at the edge of the ring, in that quiet moment, something cracked.
And something else... began.
Sloane stepped back. Her left shoulder pulsed dully, as though the hit hadn't just struck tissue, but tapped into something deeper, something coiled. There was no break. No blood. But the touch—the momentum that caught her, the corner of the glove slamming into skin—it was all there. The worst part wasn't the force. It was the fact that it happened. Lennox stood frozen. His gloved hands were trembling—not from fatigue, but from the disgust he felt for himself. No punch had ever landed this deep. Not like this. Not on someone unguarded. Someone who wasn't a threat.
Someone who... was trying to look out for him.
"Sloane..." he started, voice low and raw, but she raised a hand to stop him.
"Don't," she said. Her voice was like ice skating the edge of a blade. "Not a word."
Lennox closed his mouth. His throat was dry. His legs didn't move. He stood like a condemned man, unsure of what hurt more: the punishment or the guilt. Sloane slowly lowered her hand from her shoulder. There was something clinical in the movement. She didn't cradle the injury, didn't check for damage. She wasn't the type to show weakness. Especially not in front of him.
"First of all," she began, exhaling sharply, "if you hit me again—accident or instinct or reflex—I'm done. The training. The tour. Everything."
"I didn't... I didn't mean to," Lennox tried again, but her voice cut him off.
"I'm fully aware you didn't mean to. But you still did it."
The silence wedged itself between them, heavy and metallic. The fan's whir echoed too sharply against the walls, like a thought spinning too fast with no exit.
Sloane walked over to the bag and stopped beside it. She pressed her palm to the leather where the glove had hit. It wasn't a painful gesture—more like a reminder. Of what she had tried to avoid, but happened anyway: body and rage colliding.
"This is why I don't let you go full force," she said quietly, staring at the bag. "This is why there are rules. Why I ask you to stick to the pace, the breathing, the direction. Because if you lose control, you're dangerous."
Lennox still didn't move. His breath was heavier, but he kept his voice in check. He watched Sloane's back—not with remorseful tenderness, but with that same filthy tension he'd carried since childhood. The one that spun in his blood like an emergency alarm always on standby.
"I should've pulled back," he muttered. "I knew I was tipping over. But... I couldn't stop. Once it starts, it doesn't stop. That's just how it is."
"That's not 'how it is,' Lennox," Sloane turned around, her voice suddenly sharp and firm. "That's a choice. Every single time. Your body doesn't move on its own. You start it. You don't stop it. And if you're too much of a coward to control that, then you don't belong in the ring. You don't belong around people."
The words struck him. Harder than he had ever hit.
"How dare you," Lennox hissed, taking a step toward her. "You don't know anything about me. You have no idea what's going on inside my head. To you it's just data and heart rate. I'm just a case study, aren't I?"
"To me, you're a patient. One who could end his life any day if he doesn't learn to regulate himself," she shot back. "And I'm the one trying to stop you from one day hitting someone else—not by accident."
The last word landed with quiet force. She didn't shout. She didn't raise her voice. Which made it far more dangerous. Because in it was that infinite cold logic. Professional contempt, cloaked in armor.
Lennox clenched his gloved fists.
"You don't understand me. You never will."
"I don't need to understand you," Sloane said coolly. "That's not my job. But keeping you contained? That is. And if you can't cooperate, then our partnership ends. Immediately. Your body hasn't collapsed yet, Lennox—but what's raging inside it... that could pull you under any moment."
His breath caught. His eyes were still ice blue, but not cold—clouded. Like a whirlpool that couldn't find a course.
Sloane was already heading for the exit. Her shoulder was still guarded, though she didn't show it. Her posture never wavered. As she passed him, Lennox muttered quietly:
"I didn't ask for your help."
Sloane stopped. Didn't turn.
"And I didn't ask to be hit."
Then she walked out.
And the sound of the door was louder than the impact. The silence in the hallway felt suffocating. Sloane zipped her jacket tighter around her shoulder as she walked down PowerCore's side corridor, past the lockers, laundry room, and video station. She didn't limp, didn't falter, but every step held a hint of stiffness. The pain wasn't sharp—but the moment replayed in her head again and again.
It wasn't the physical blow that hurt most. That was just a flash, momentum meeting muscle. The real trauma was the look on Lennox's face, right before he lost it. That blind, familiar expression. That moment when a person vanishes into themselves.
She knew it. Too well. She stopped in front of Marcus's office. Two knocks. Firm, but calm. A second later, a voice from inside called:
"It's open."
The door creaked gently. Sloane stepped in. Marcus was hunched over his notes, coffee mug in hand, his desk meticulously organized to the point of sterility. When he saw Sloane's face—and the way she held her left shoulder slightly stiff—he stood immediately.
"What happened?"
"No fracture," Sloane said quickly. "Just a poorly timed hit. Reflexive."
"Lennox?" Marcus asked, though he already knew.
Sloane nodded.
"Not intentional. The bag swung back, and he was already in motion. Caught my shoulder."
Marcus exhaled. "Sit. Let me take a look."
Sloane sat at the edge of the exam bed slowly, not wanting to show too much weakness—but her face had no mask. Not pain. Disappointment. In her own limits. In her control. In Lennox.
Marcus unzipped her jacket, then gently shifted her top to access her shoulder.
"Lift your arm to the side. Slowly." His voice was calm, but unusually attentive. "Where do you feel it?"
"Lateral deltoid, radiating toward the scapula," Sloane answered flatly. "Blunt trauma, most likely. No deep muscle tear."
"I see." Marcus's fingers glided gently along the muscle, checking for swelling. "Some areas still can't be tamed. He's exactly that."
"This goes beyond lack of control," Sloane murmured, eyes fixed on the wall. "This is instinct. Deep-seated reflex. And today, that reflex hit me."
"And you?" Marcus asked—not just about the injury now.
Sloane was quiet a moment. Then she sighed.
"I'm out of patience. Not because he's aggressive. But because he's not progressing. I'm there every hour, directing, watching, de-escalating—and nothing. The second he's alone in his head, he slips. Today, he almost took me with him."
Marcus gently pulled her shirt back into place. Her shoulder was red but not swollen.
"Ice it, rest, keep it mobile," he said. Then he sat at his desk and waited. He knew she hadn't come just for treatment. He didn't have to wait long. Sloane looked up and said something she rarely did:
"I want you at the next few training sessions. With me. Actively."
Marcus wasn't surprised. But the way she asked—that was. She didn't order. She didn't demand. She asked.
"Lennox doesn't respect authority—only what he respects. And that's not me. Not yet. But he's afraid of you. And right now, that might be exactly what's needed. A third point. Someone to pull him back before he loses control again. Of himself. And of me."
Marcus considered that. He rotated his coffee cup in his hands.
"Do you want to stay?"
Sloane didn't hesitate.
"I can't afford to walk away. Because if I back out now, there's no one to keep him on track. And then he doesn't fail because of the punch. He fails because of his own mind."
"And you want to stop that?"
"Not for him," Sloane said softly. "For me. Because if I quit while there's still a chance... I'll never forgive myself."
Silence. Only the ticking of the desk clock filled the room. Finally, Marcus nodded.
"I'll be there tomorrow morning."
Sloane stood. She adjusted her jacket, and despite the pain, her posture stayed firm.
"Thank you," she said simply.
And then she walked out. The world hadn't changed behind her. Things weren't easier. Lennox wasn't any more manageable. Her shoulder still ached, the anger still pulsed. But the weight—now, it was shared.
And that was something.