Ethan pushed open the gym door and stepped inside, a duffel bag slung carelessly over one shoulder.“Sorry. Got held up at school.”The irritation in my chest hadn’t quite faded, but I only nodded. A message would have taken ten seconds. Was that so difficult?I didn’t argue. I was tired of arguing.In the weeks since that night—the alley, the darkness, the moment I realized how fragile I really was—I had trained like a man dying of thirst. Ethan had been teaching me the basics: balance, stance, breath control, how to fall without breaking bones, how to strike without hesitation. I absorbed everything.Anything that kept me from ever feeling that helpless again.He walked to the center of the mat and rolled out a thick pad. He removed his shoes and motioned for me to do the same.“Today, no technique,” he said, pulling padded mitts from his bag. “I want your real punch. No control. Hit me with whatever you’re holding in. Anger. Disappointment. Doesn’t matter. I’ll study your stance an
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