The gym looked like it had been carved out of an old garage, and never fully decided if it wanted to be more. Exposed brick, mismatched mats, the faint sting of sweat in the air. Heavy bags swung from rusted chains, and the walls were lined with battered gloves and hand-written schedules. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't modern. But it was honest.
And that was exactly what Seraphina needed.
She hovered near the front door, one hand curled tightly around the strap of her backpack, the other shoved into the pocket of her hoodie. Her breath fogged faintly against the glass—too warm compared to the cold outside, too cold compared to her skin. It made her nervous.
She didn't like being watched.
And even though no one had looked her way yet, she could feel it. The burn of attention. Suspicion. She didn't belong here—not in this world of grunts and sweat and steel—but she had to learn. Fast.
There were maybe ten people inside. Some sparring. Some stretching. A woman in her late twenties was running drills with a younger kid, both of them focused and precise. Nobody glanced at her.
Good.
The front desk sat to the side, cluttered with a stack of intake forms and a dented cash register. A cracked plastic sign read:
NEW MEMBERS – ASK FOR LACHLAN.
Her fingers twitched. That name. She'd seen it on the gym's website. One of the only places in walking distance from the university, and—more importantly—open to new hires.
She forced her legs to move, her boots echoing quietly against the scuffed concrete floor. The moment she stepped past the threshold, the smell hit her harder. Not bad, just dense. Chalk. Blood. Testosterone. Cleaning solution that didn't quite mask the copper underneath.
She liked it. At least she could pretend it didn't make her hungry.
"Need something?"
The voice came from behind a weight rack—low, gravelly, and casual. It rumbled like it belonged to someone who didn't need to raise his voice to be obeyed.
She turned her head—and stopped breathing for half a second.
The man standing there looked like he'd walked off a recruiting poster, except less polished. His leather jacket was scarred and worn, half-zipped to show the sweat-darkened collar of a plain black tee. His jaw was dusted with a day or two's worth of beard, and his eyes—hazel, sharp—cut straight through her.
He didn't move. Just crossed his arms and waited.
Seraphina cleared her throat. "I saw the sign about new hires. And the student rate. I'm kind of looking for both."
"You box?"
"No," she admitted. "Not yet."
That earned her a slight raise of his brow. "And you want to work here."
"I want to learn." Her voice was steady. "And I'm a fast learner. I don't need much. Just a job, and a place where I can be myself."
That caught something in his expression. Just the barest twitch of his mouth, like he'd heard that before—too many times or not enough.
"Name?"
"Seraphina." A pause. "Most people just call me Sera."
He nodded once and finally stepped out from behind the weights. Up close, he was taller than she expected. Solid, grounded, built like someone who could take a hit and still stand. His gaze didn't waver, but it wasn't invasive. Just… assessing.
She let him look.
Let him see the tired edges she hadn't covered with makeup, the silver strands still threading through her hair, the too-pale skin and the black-out sunglasses she still hadn't removed.
He didn't comment.
"What can you do?" he asked instead.
She blinked. "Now?"
"Eventually."
She considered. "I can clean. Organize. Run the front desk. Patch up cuts. Wrap hands. Handle egos. Take a punch."
He barked a soft laugh at that. Not mocking—genuine. "You'll need all of that here."
"I figured."
There was a silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Just the kind that settled before a decision. Finally, he gave a nod toward the corner. "Locker room's back there. Grab a waiver and fill it out. Trial basis for now. If you can survive a week without quitting, we'll talk hours and pay."
Her brows lifted. "That easy?"
"You walked in. That's the hardest part."
She wasn't sure if that was meant to be comforting. But it was honest. And she could work with honest.
"Thanks," she said simply.
He gave a grunt, already turning back to the weights. "Name's Lachlan. Let me know if someone gives you shit. I don't like drama."
'Neither do I,' she thought. 'Neither do I.'
-----
She signed the waiver and set her bag behind the desk, careful not to let her sleeves ride up. Her skin was still too strange, too purple under the wrong light. The makeup helped, but it wouldn't survive sweat. Not forever.
But that was fine… there was always waterproof makeup. Or face paint if it got that bad. She wasn't here to in any beauty contests.
She was here to remember.
She needed to know how her new body moved. How it fought. How to control the monster inside her.
It wasn't just about strength. It was about restraint. Timing. Tension.
And here, surrounded by people who didn't know her and didn't care, she could be anything. Even someone real.
The night passed quickly. She wiped sweat off benches, sprayed down mats, fetched ice packs and first aid. She watched the sparring rings with sharp eyes, trying to memorize the stances, the pivots, the footwork.
Lachlan didn't hover, but he watched. Quietly. Like he'd already figured out she wasn't normal, but hadn't decided if that made her dangerous.
She didn't smile. But she didn't run either.
That was progress.
At the end of the shift, he tossed her a key card. "Locker's yours. Don't lose it."
She caught it, eyes narrowing faintly. "You sure?"
"I don't hand out second chances," he said simply. "But I recognize people who need a first."
She stared after him as he walked away. His shoulders were tense—like the weight of something he didn't say sat there, pressing down. She didn't ask.
She just filed it away.
Useful people. Useful places.
Useful weapons.