He bounces and jumps on the balls of his feet in the center of the gym to warm up as red neon light slices through the dim darkness, and the scream of guitars rattle around in his ears.
Darren's fists hammer at the heavy bag, each thud a staccato beat echoing in the empty gym. Sweat drips down his brow as he loses himself in the rhythm. The music's rhythm is a heartbeat, driving every motion.
He's a warrior, weaving around an imaginary opponent. His gloves burn against leather; sweat stinging in his eyes. Ghosts of pain from the past flicker behind his gaze, but he won't let any of that weakness touch the canvas.
He circles, weight shifting from front foot to back, imitating a Muay Thai stance he studied from endless videos and training in multiple gyms over the past two years.
He feints left, feints right, then unloads a barrage: jab, jab, cross, hook, then a sharp teep to the bag's midsection. The chain rattles with each hit. He clinches the bag, thumbs locked high, and pulls it down as he drives a knee up into its midriff. Knees like pistons strike again. "Ha!" He spins away with a roundhouse, pivoting on the ball of his foot. Every strike slices through silence. He counts in his head: one, two, three… seven.
The senses hum in overload. There are no lectures here, no campus debates, only the sound of his gloves hitting the heavy bag and the growing stench of sweat.
Skillet's "Monster" blares in his headphones, the riff and drum pounding blood through his veins. Even as his fists slam and the music blares, a stray thought flickers in his head. Why me? It's a whisper among the chaos, and he shoves it down, glove back to guard position.
Back to the task at hand.
He steps across the stained mats, feet light but grounded. He dances around the imaginary enemy, jabbing at his face, elbows feinting a hit to the neck. A spinning elbow cracks through space on the third count; for a split second, his own reflection in the mirror shows a man consumed, a man possessed, a man in his own little world. But that moment vanishes like a ghost when he pivots back into the drill.
His heart hammers; sweat pours.
In the midst of all this, his mind jumps around: Dinner? Homework? No, fuck's sake, not now! He slaps those ghosts away. Focus. Normally his brain is a wildfire, but here in this gym, it's calm... for the most part.
He focuses on the drill: one footstep, one strike. Jab, kick, jab… breathe. The world outside these walls could explode, and he wouldn't hear it over the beat in his ears. He is in a world of his own.
"Dragula" by Rob Zombie plays as he steps in close and clinches the bag again.
A tight Thai lock, thumbs interlaced at the back of the bag's neck, forehead pressed to canvas. He drives knee after knee into the heavy bag—bang, bang—with a low roar each time. His forearms press into the bag's sides, feeling each impact reverberate up through his quads and core. The room is hot; sweat drips from his elbows onto the floor.
Adrenaline pulses through him.
Stray thoughts break through the drill: Superheroes are real now...
A strange doubt pinches his gut. It doesn't fit, he grew up on comic books and Gaelic folklore, and he has the strength of those heroes, the speed too…but no origin story. No lightning bolt. No lab accident.
Just two years of waking up different.
It's haunts him, Why? How? But he shakes his head and pushes that aside. For now, he has this fight to focus on.
The Training takes over again. This the only place he truly feels disciplined, A rare calm in the chaos.
Outside, people care about midterms; here, it's just heavy breathing and fists against the leather of the bag.
In a moment of passion he throws off the headphones, they clatter to the floor. He listens only to the thump of his own blood and the distant drip of rain outside. He surges into a final wave of intensity. A right hook, cross, then a tight fist–elbow–knee combo rattles the bag, and a spinning back kick thumps through him on the rebound. His movements blur.
His movements blur. For a brief moment, this gym is his world.
He could do this forever. At least it feels that way.
Then the adrenaline starts to wind down. Darren drops to one knee on the ring imprint etched into the floor. His gloves rest on his thighs. His breathing is ragged. His skin is on fire. Muscles tremble.
In the hush, random thoughts come slamming back: What time is it? Did I lock the door? Panic edges in, but he immediately shoves it away. These thoughts, mom texting me, classes tomorrow, feel distant and out of place here.
He stretches a little. His shoulders crack. He breathes deep.
In the red glow, his muscles look hard and sharp, carved by years of bruises and nights like these. He scans the empty gym, almost as if he expects applause from ghosts. Nobody's there. Darren, nineteen and alone, is the only one there. His gym shirt is thoroughly soaked, and his gloves feel heavy, but... at the same time, he's never felt more alive.
The world out there is calling for something… a hero, or maybe a monster he doesn't really know yet.
Tonight, it's just training.
He tilts his head up at the old fan, listening to its whirring creaks, the feeling of the breeze is nice on his face. Rain drums lightly on the roof.
The tinny echo of "In the End" from his headphones still playing on the floor catches his attention. The lyrics float in his skull, something about trying so hard but in the end it didn't matter.
The lyrics float around in his head for a while.
He doesn't dwell on that, though. Instead, he splashes water on his face and wipes it down with a towel.
In the quiet that follows, the adrenaline crash hits. Coiling tight in his chest: the twitchiness in his limbs crawling back.
He downs half a bottle of water in a few desperate gulps.
The bag sways gently beside him, idle at last.
Alone in the gym at midnight, Darren listens to the water dripping from the old pipes and breathes in ragged gasps as he thinks about everything and nothing all at once.