riding high on a few amateur wins. They were loud, obnoxious, and commanded the center
of the gym as if they owned it. Elara wiped a bead of sweat from her brow and moved to the
speed bag, tuning them out. She had her own demons to fight, her own history to keep
buried.
It started as a joke. Jax, a lean striker with a bleached undercut, leaned over the ropes. "Hey,
Grandma!" he called out, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "Don't break a hip on
that speed bag."
A few onlookers snickered. Elara ignored him, her rhythm unbroken. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Thorne, the grappler of the group, chimed in. "Come on, Jax, leave her alone. She’s probably
doing cardio to keep up with her knitting club."