Page 40 of Lethal in Pink

I hit send.

Lock my phone.

Throw it onto the couch beside me.

Thirty seconds pass.

Maybe less.

“Fuck.”

I stand.

Sitting still isn't helping.

So I stop sitting.

I change in thirty seconds flat.

Worn black shorts, and a faded grey compression shirt that’s seen more wash cycles than it was designed for.

Grabbing my gym bag from the closet, I stuff my gloves, wraps, and a water bottle inside, sling the strap over my shoulder, and slam the door behind me hard enough that the neighbor’s dog starts barking.

The walk to the boxing gym takes eight minutes if I don't stop at the crosswalk.

I don't stop.

The city changes block by block.

Neat hedges and university signage fall away behind me. The sidewalk buckles. Storefronts get older, closer together. Somewhere between the bubble tea shop and the dry cleaner, the boxing gym appears.

The front door is glass, but the glass has been spray-painted from the inside, matte black, so you can’t see through it. The sign above the door reads “HARDKNOCKS” in letters that look like they were welded together from scrap metal, and the “O” in “KNOCKS” has been replaced with a fist.

I pull open the door and the smell hits me—sweat and leather and the sharp chemical tang of the floor cleaner they use between sessions—the tantalizing smell of a place where people come to hurt themselves on purpose.

The front desk guy barely looks up. He’s got a tattoo sleeve that starts at his wrist and disappears into a tank top two sizes too small, and he’s reading something on his phone that makes him snort every thirty seconds.

I scan my membership card and the guy looks up from him phone long enough to say “what’s up” as I bypass to the mats.

One guy near the lockers is packing up his gloves.

He nods.

I nod back.

I spot a vacant bench beneath a flickering fluorescent tube and lower myself onto its hard, varnished slats. My gym bag thumps against the floor. I pull out a roll of hand wraps, unspooling cool cotton between my fingers. Starting at my left wrist, I circle the fabric around bone, then snake it across my palm, weaving between each finger like threading fishing line through hooks. I spiral it around my knuckles, layer by layer—wrap, cross, pull, tighten—before slapping on the stiff Velcro. I flex my fingers. The snug fabric bites into my knuckles.

Perfect.

I rise, pull on my gloves, and pad across the rubber mat toward the heavy bag stationed at the far end of the room—a hulking cylinder of worn leather festooned with scuff marks. I plant my feet shoulder-width apart, shift my weight into my heels, and drive a quick jab. The bag answers with a hollow thud.

Cross: the chains overhead rattle. Hook: a jolt stabs through my shoulder. Again. Jab. Cross. Hook. Uppercut. With each strike, the bag swings farther, the chains creaking like old floorboards. My lungs inhale cold air and exhale in a rasp. Years of boxing classes and dance training have smoothed my footwork. I make a pivot here, a hip turn there, my shoulders whiplashing in sync.

Everything has a rhythm.

Everything except my head.

Kiho's message sits behind my eyes.