Underneath the uniform, I wore a plain, faded black T-shirt. It clung to a torso mapped with ugly, jagged lines — thick, raised scar tissue from a past life where survival wasn’t a philosophical debate held on padded blue foam.
I folded the uniform carefully. I placed it neatly on the wire shelf. I grabbed my worn denim jacket, slipping my arms into the sleeves with a quiet grunt, and picked up my faded canvas backpack.
I walked out of the utility closet and stopped at the edge of the hardwood.
Trent was finally attempting to stand. It was a pathetic, agonizing process to watch. He rolled onto his uninjured side, planted his left hand flat against the wood, and pushed. His breath hitched in sharp, involuntary gasps. He managed to get to his knees, heavily favoring his right side, and leaned against the wall below the mirrors.
He looked up. His own reflection stared back at him. The custom-embroidered black belt was twisted awkwardly around his waist. The knot was undone, the heavy black tails dragging on the floor like a dirty rag.
I watched him for a brief moment. I felt absolutely no pity. I felt no triumph either. I only felt a deep, hollow exhaustion. Violence was a currency, and I hated spending it. It always left me feeling bankrupt.
“Turn the lights off when you leave,” I said.
My voice was a flat, emotionless rasp. Trent didn’t turn around. He just nodded — a microscopic, trembling dip of his chin against his chest.
I pushed open the heavy metal fire door at the back of the gym. The alarm panel beeped a brief warning, then fell silent as the door clicked shut behind me, locking automatically.
The cool, damp night air hit my face. It smelled of wet asphalt, old garbage, and distant exhaust. It was real. It was a sharp, welcome contrast to the sterile, pine-scented artificiality of the gym I had just left behind.
Inside the gym, Trent finally managed to stand. He leaned heavily against the glass, his legs trembling uncontrollably. He reached down with his good hand and grabbed the heavy knot of his black belt. He pulled. The thick fabric slipped loose, falling onto the hardwood with a soft, pathetic thud.
He stepped over it. He left it behind as he began the long, agonizing walk toward the front office. He had to figure out how to explain the bruises. He had to figure out how to face a class that had seen him beg for oxygen. He had to figure out how to live with the sudden, crushing knowledge that he was entirely, undeniably fake.
Outside, a city bus hissed to a stop against the curb. The pneumatic doors folded open with a mechanical, tired groan. I climbed the rubber-lined steps. I nodded to the driver — a woman who looked just as tired as I felt — and dropped a handful of warm coins into the fare box.
I walked toward the back. The bus was mostly empty. A tired nurse sleeping against a window. A teenager wearing oversized headphones. Regular people. Survivors.
I sat down in the very last corner seat. I rested my canvas backpack on my knees and folded my thick hands over it. I looked out the scratched, dirty window as the bus pulled away from the curb. The bright neon sign of Apex Striking and Grappling faded into the distance, shrinking until it disappeared completely.
I rubbed my knuckles, feeling the dull, familiar ache of bone and cartilage pressing against skin. Tomorrow, I had a shift at a grocery store on the East Side. Floor buffer. Aisle six. No egos. No black belts. Just dirt, and the quiet, simple satisfaction of wiping it away.
I closed my eyes, let my head fall back against the vibrating glass, and faded safely back into the ghost I always wanted to be.
