Christopher

The stifling air of the training gym is thick with the scent of sweat, and the dull thuds of punches hitting the heavy bag echo under the high ceilings. In the center of the gym, on the ring where it hangs, a tall man steps back after delivering one last blow.

Christopher stands leaning his elbows on the top rope, staring into nothingness. From his height, he has a view of the entire gym, but his green eyes are focused somewhere far beyond the walls. His dark curls are damp from his warm-up, and beads of sweat trace paths down his broad chest beneath a tight gray t-shirt. His jaw is set tight, the muscles twitching beneath his skin. He has just finished an exhausting series on the bag and is now catching his breath.

Beside the ring, Peter, his manager—a balding man in his mid-forties wearing a loose linen suit—is fussing about. He nervously fidgets with a folder of documents, glancing repeatedly toward the entrance. Peter lowers his voice, even though there is no one else in the gym besides the two of them.

— Listen, the doctor will be here any minute. I’m asking you, please... just be... well, a little more polite. This person is truly the best in their field. Without help, that knee of yours isn't going to last much longer. Just give the doctor a chance.

Christopher slowly turns his head. The movement is smooth, almost lazy, but it carries a hidden threat. He looks down at his manager—the height difference is nearly half a head even without the ring, but with the ring, Peter looks tiny.

— I didn't ask for a physical therapist. — his voice is low, raspy. His words fall like heavy chunks of metal. He turns back toward the gym, making it clear the conversation is over.

At that moment, the heavy iron door of the gym swings open with a clang, letting in a strip of light from the hallway along with you.