The third week marked a shift in the atmosphere. The rain was pounding
against the tin roof of the Iron Lotus, creating a deafening drumroll that
heightened the tension inside. It was sparring night, the most intense evening
of the week. Fighters were paired up, testing their mettle in a series of
grueling five-minute rounds. Blood was drawn, egos were bruised, and the
air was thick with competitive aggression. Elara, as usual, sat in her corner.
But tonight, she had taped her fingers. It was a subtle detail, but in a gym
where everyone analyzed everything, it was equivalent to a declaration of
war.
Jax had just finished dismantling a promising welterweight, leaving the
younger man gasping for air and clutching his ribs. Sweating and hyped on
adrenaline, Jax scanned the room for his next victim. His eyes landed on
Elara, and a wicked, arrogant smirk spread across his face. He walked to the
center of the mat, spreading his arms wide. "Alright, I'm bored," Jax
announced, his voice booming over the sound of the rain. "Who wants a
piece? Or better yet... why don't we see what the quiet girl has learned from
all her watching?"
The gym fell completely silent. The heavy bags stopped swinging. The
jump ropes ceased their whirring. All eyes turned to the unassuming woman
sitting by the wall. It was a cruel challenge. Jax outweighed her by at least
eighty pounds of pure muscle. He was a trained killer; she was, in their eyes,
a delusional hobbyist. Marcus, watching from the desk, stood up. "Come on,
Jax, knock it off. She's not a fighter." But Jax ignored him, keeping his eyes
locked on Elara. "What do you say? Just light flow rolling. I promise I won't