The heavy bag swung with a rhythmic, hypnotic thud. Elara Vance wrapped her hands,
the rough white tape contrasting against her deeply tanned skin. She wasn’t a flashy
fighter. She wore faded grey sweatpants and a plain black tank top. The gym, ‘Iron & Dust,’
was a relic on the edge of the city, smelling of sweat, old leather, and quiet determination.
Most people ignored her. She was thirty-two, considered past her prime by the young
hotshots who came in looking to make a name for themselves. She preferred it that way.
She delivered a combination to the bag—jab, cross, hook, low kick—with terrifying
precision, yet minimal apparent effort. The impact sounded like a whip cracking, but the
young men sparring in the center ring were too busy showing off to notice.
Among them were Jax, Thorne, and Bull. They were local up-and-comers, arrogant and