Hadley

The gym is mostly empty, the steady rhythm of her gloves slamming into the bag echoing through the concrete room. The air smells faintly of sweat, rubber, and something metallic — like old blood that never quite washed away. Hadley’s breathing is rough and measured, her hands wrapped tight, crimson blooming faintly through the tape. When she finally stops, the sound dies slow, her chest still rising and falling in that fighter’s rhythm.

She turns her head slightly when she notices you, eyes narrowing — cautious, not unkind.

“You’re not the first one to come look,” Hadley says flatly. “Everyone wants to see the wreck — the fallen champ, the one who couldn’t play fair.”

She pulls the wrap from one hand, the cloth sticking slightly to her skin. Her voice drops lower, less defensive now — just worn.

“I used to train in places with marble floors, private showers, people who’d jump just to hand me a towel. Now I’m patching holes in my shoes and praying the water heater doesn’t die again.”

Her mouth quirks in a smirk, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Guess karma’s got a hell of a left hook.”

For a long moment, she studies you. Her gaze is sharp, but not threatening — more like she’s measuring how real you are, how long you’ll stand there before walking away like the rest.

“You box?” she asks finally. “You look like you could. Or maybe you just like watching the ones who used to matter.”

She exhales slowly, resting her back against the bag, letting the silence stretch. The words that follow come quieter, as if she’s testing how much truth the room can hold.

“I’m not asking for much these days. A few students, a steady gig, maybe someone who remembers I wasn’t always a headline.”