The glass door slid open under Zane's hand, cool metal against his palm. He stepped inside, and the difference hit him immediately—not the temperature, though the air was cooler here, but the silence.
No weights clanging. No treadmills humming. No music thumping from the studio.
Nothing.
He paused just past the threshold, his school bag heavy on his shoulder, and scanned the space with eyes that felt like they'd been open too long. The front desk sat unmanned. The equipment floor stretched out beyond it, dark and still. Every rack empty. Every bench vacant. The machines stood like sleeping giants in the dim overhead lighting.
His chest tightened, not with surprise but with a bone-deep weariness that went beyond physical fatigue. This kind of tired lived in his marrow, the kind that came from knowing—before you even started—exactly how hard the next hour was going to be.
He set his bag down on the counter, the thud of it too loud in the quiet. Rested his hand there for a moment. Felt the coolness of the laminate under his fingers.
The empty interior could only mean one thing.
Private session.
The thought settled over him like a weight. His throat went dry.
And only one person ever books private sessions.
His fingers curled against the counter edge. That exhaustion inside him coiled tighter, colder, wrapping around his lungs until breathing felt like work.
'Mia?'
***
To the west, an ocean stretched beyond the edges of the world, a boundless expanse of abyssal blue where the sun's rays kindled a perpetual, shimmering mist. From the heart of those endless waters, the air itself stirred. It gathered the breath of the sea, the taste of the salt, and the weight of the impending journey. Something called to it—a spirit of adventure born from the endless blue, ready to leave its cradle, learning the shape of its own body.
And thus, the mist-laden wind was born—tasting of salt, surging with the force of a gale.
With that power, it surged eastward from its cradle until the endless blue yielded to the gold of a coastal shore. There, it drank the heat from the sun-baked dunes, growing light and buoyant. Its spirit, now unburdened, sparked a new dream: to ascend, to touch the cold, mystical cosmos above. And from the mountain range before, it saw not an obstacle, but a path to the heavens above.
And so it rose. It climbed the shoulders of the mountain, a desperate ascent towards the stars. But the thin, high air stole its warmth, and its mist bled away with every string of altitude conquered. An icy heaviness seeped into its core. Yet, the dream—the memory of the cosmos—was etched into its very being, and it pushed on.
The peak was a betrayal. There was no gateway to the stars, no escape to the heavens, only a frigid, freezing, airless prison. Its dreams shattered, the last of its ambitions stolen by the mountain's white crown. All that remained was despair. It fell, no longer a rising spirit, but a raging, anguished wind, torn from its grace. Thus, the mist-laden wind was forged anew into a dry, cold tempest, leaving the memory of the ocean frozen upon the peak.
At the foot of the mountain, it met green-haired giants standing valiantly on a single trunk. Raging, it launched an assault, battering the moss-covered skin of the trees. The giants were bulwarks against its fury. They did not fight back; they cooed and soothed, absorbing the rage into their rough-hewn bark. And in their fortitude, they danced, their massive bodies leaning but holding fast, a testament to roots that ran deeper than any tantrum.
And so, its ire spent, the Western Wind drifted downward from the wooded highlands. It was no longer a gale or a raging spirit, but a cool, gentle breeze, its great cosmic ambition humbled into simple motion. It carried not despair but a new symphony—the melodic tale of the forest and premonition of adventures to come.
With simple motion, it slipped into Ashburn, a small, sequestered town in the middle of bustling nowhere. Here, it felt an echo. Not of the cosmos, but of the same longing that had once driven it to climb. Here, it met humans; wild, free spirits with aspirations leaning towards the heavens.
The breeze, now a gentle witness, wove through the market stalls of the town's main thoroughfare. Here, the deep earthly scent of fresh farm produce hung rich in the air. To the traders—haggling, boasting, chasing their worldly ambitions—it whispered the secrets of the ocean's depth and the giants' patience. They did not hear, their minds buzzing with the noise of coin and reputation.
But, the world around them heard. The hairs on their heads danced to its silent tune. Shirts and skirts fluttered against will. The leaves of trees embellishing Ashburn rustled in a unified, whispering sigh, replying to their forest brethren.
Having delivered its message to the unheeding, the wind drifted from the market's energy. it swirled into the town square. Here, the heart of Ashburn beat a slower, much more harmonious rythm. Cobblestones, worn smooth by generations, radiated a soft, evening warmth. At its center, stood an ornate fountain of weathered grey stone, where stone serpents coiled eternally towards a spire that spilled a constant, chattering stream of water onto a basin below.
The square was a painting of antique tranquility, bounded by cobblestones and quaint, low-built shops with frosted windows. But on its far side stood a structure that shattered the ancient charm: a building of polished dark stone and sweeping glass. A single, sleek, modern script above the entrance spelled out its purpose: McGan's Gym.
Opposite the gym, just across the worn cobblestones, the wind found a final, resting curiosity. There, in the parking lot, a beast of steel and glass lay in a slumber of polished steel and darkened glass. Its sleek form, a sculpture of dormant speed, absorbed the evening sun, holding the light like a promise of power and silence. It was a creature of a different world, sleeping amidst the ancient stones, anticipating the touch that would summon its heart to a purr and its spirit to the open road.
The beast of elegant steel reflected the gym's sleek lines, a distorted image of dark stone and glass that shivered and reformed as the door slid open with a hushed hydraulic sigh.
Mia Monroe stepped out and the world shifted to meet her.
A vibrant, electric energy buzzed just beneath her skin. She had seen him. The simple fact made the air seem more vivid, the colours of the fading day more saturated. She paused on the worn cobblestones, her training shoes solid on the ancient ground, and took a deep breath. The breeze—cool and gentle—kissed her skin, and her fatigued muscles sighed. For a fleeting second, she wished she were on the mansion's roof, alone with this splendid wind and the dizzying feeling in her chest.
Her gaze fell upon the waiting car. Vera was already there, holding the door open, a silent summon back to reality. Mia slid inside, the familiar starlight smell embracing her. As the door thudded shut, she let the excitement flood back, building castles in the air of her mind, each one more elaborate than the last…
Meanwhile, inside the gym, Cedric's hand rested on Zane's shoulder—a weight of approval, of something paternal. In another context, with different clothes, they might have been father and son at a wedding, celebrating some long-awaited union. But here, in their identical gym attire bearing McGan's crest, they were simply employer and instructor, caught in a moment that felt larger than it was.
Zane Ling. One instructor among several, yet Cedric's thoughts returned to him again and again like a tide to shore.
Was it the girls? The way they flocked when Zane taught, filling the membership rolls, their laughter bright as coins dropping into his register? Or was it the Monroe girl—the daughter of Ashburn's wealthiest blood—who had chosen his gym, his instructor, booking private sessions week after week? Zane claimed they weren't close despite sharing classrooms for years. Just a client who wants privacy, he'd said. But why Zane? Trust, perhaps. Rich girls that age built walls and only opened gates for the familiar, the known, the safe.
The hand on Zane's shoulder grew leaden with unspoken things. Cedric pulled it back, suddenly aware of how it must seem—this lingering touch, this weighted silence. There had been words he'd meant to say, a specific phrase of praises, but they'd scattered like mist before he could catch them.
His fingers found his wallet instead, that brown and shabby companion, leather worn soft as skin from years of opening and closing. He'd bought it at Sybyl Antiques back when the world was different, when he'd had different dreams. Now it held the day's purpose.
One, Three, Seven… His thumb moved through the bills with practiced efficiency, the arithmetic running silent beneath conscious thought. Ten thousand Cordian Coronas, crisp and worn in equal measure, pressed together into Zane's palm. Cedric folded the young man's fingers over the currency, making the transaction solid, real.
"You did a great job today."
Zane's fingers closed around the bills, their worn texture familiar as a handshake. The calculations were already running—rent due in five days, the nursing home's monthly invoice, the groceries that couldn't wait. Ten thousand Cordian notes translated instantly into time: another month of his father's care, two weeks of decent meals, the electric bill paid before the shutoff notice.
The shoulder touch—he'd felt it land like a too-heavy bird, awkward and lingering. He didn't like people in his space, didn't like the weight of unsaid things pressing down on him. But money was money, and if Cedric needed to make fatherly gestures to feel good about paying bonuses, well. That was a small price for a large need.
Still. They'd agreed on the payment part, not the shoulder part.
He let the thought pass, unspoken, as he pocketed the notes.
"Thanks, boss."
The words came easily, professionally. Gratitude without intimacy. Exactly the boundary he needed.
***
Zane pushed the locker door, watched it swing shut, heard the lock click. Finally. Done. Every muscle sang its quiet hymn of pain, a steady ache that started in his calves and didn't stop until it reached his skull. Two hours of Finance Literature—mental quicksand, each minute dragging him deeper into derivative markets and capital allocation theories that felt about as relevant to his life as astrophysics. And the "recovery" gym session? Recovery implied healing. This had been punishment.
He hitched his backpack higher. The strap dug into his shoulder.
And then there was Mia.
Am I doing it right? Can we go a little higher? Hey, attention here.
Her voice bloomed in his memory, sharp and bright and relentless. Sixty minutes of that. Sixty minutes of her buzzing around every set, every stolen moment of focus he had tried to horde, chattering with that performance-edge enthusiasm that made his jaw clench even now, blocks away from the gym. That laugh—heavens, that laugh—still clung to him like smoke he couldn't wave away.
Why book private sessions with him when she clearly despised his existence? Middle school surfaced, unwanted. Her voice, younger but just as cutting—
Move out of the way, Twig.
Girlish giggles then… Soon after, the name lean Ling followed him around every corner. The nickname had stuck to his ribs for years…
The yank came from behind—a sudden, brutal theft of balance and burden. Before Zane could pivot, his backpack was gone, tearing into the grip of a fleeing figure. A hoodie. A black domino mask. A flash of crimson bandana.
Grizzo.
The recognition was a lightning strike of pure betrayal. His own partner. Stealing from him. Of course, the idiot didn't recognize Zane Ling—the face was all wrong without the balaclava, without the fiend's grimace. Rage ignited his nerves, muscles coiling like springs. He dropped into a runner's crouch, the world narrowing to the thief's retreating back—
TING! TANG! TING-TING!
The sound cut through thought like a blade through silk. Not a sound—a pronouncement. A resonant gong that had no visible source, filling the evening air with metallic scripture, each ring a ripple in the fabric of what was supposed to be possible. His senses didn't just heighten—they detonated. Every nerve ending became an antenna reaching for something his rational mind refused to name.
His body turned before his brain caught up.
And there it was.
A coin. Rolling down the incline of the Street in an elegant, twirling descent. Not falling—dancing. Each revolution a deliberate gesture, a ballet performed by physics that had forgotten its own laws. The coin moved like water flowing upward, like time running backward through its own machinery.
It was beautiful beyond any mundane standard, beyond the reach of ordinary adjectives. An ephemeral sight that felt like it might evaporate if he blinked, if he breathed wrong, if his disbelief grew too heavy. The surface was gold—not the dull gold of jewelry store windows, but gold the way sunlight is gold when it hits ocean spray, when it illuminates dust motes in abandoned churches, when it promises alchemy might have been real all along.
An 'S'-shaped symbol was engraved on its face, etched in radiant majesty—not merely carved but sung into the metal, each curve a calligraphic prayer in a language he'd never learned but somehow recognized in his bones. The symbol seemed to breathe, to pulse with meaning just beyond the threshold of comprehension, like a word on the tip of consciousness that would explain everything if he could just…
The edge was immaculate, sharp and clear as broken time, reflecting the dying evening light in fragments—amber, rose, violet—each color a small apocalypse. A glimmer of something other caught in its revolution: not just light, but promise. Not just reflection, but revelation.
The coin rolled closer.
His apartment—thirty minutes north, cramped and dim and full of unpaid bills—felt suddenly like it belonged to someone else's life. Someone who hadn't heard the gong. Someone who hadn't seen metal move like prophecy.
His hand reached out. No thought. Just movement. Fingers extending toward the spinning edge.
The moment stretched.
Mia's laughter echoed somewhere in the back of his mind. Razor's task waited in tomorrow like a trap. The wind asked its eternal question about where things came from and where they were going.
All of it compressed into this: his fingerprint about to meet burnished gold.
The coin spun. Gold, shadow, gold, shadow.
His finger touched its edge