Galathea Brooks moved like she was trying to break something that refused to give.
The skin-tight trainers clung to her frame, darkened where sweat had already gathered, tracing the sharp precision of her movement as it edged into something more forceful, more deliberate than controlled.
Each strike drove through her shoulders and down her arms with intent, not wasted, not careless-- but carrying weight that had nothing to do with form. Sweat slicked against her skin, catching the harsh overhead light, every shift of muscle visible, every breath tightening instead of settling.
Her gaze never left the bag.
Sharp. Fixed. Unforgiving.
There was no pause to reset, no measured rhythm. The sequence broke where it should have held, accelerated where it should have steadied. She wasn't training for refinement.
She was forcing something out of herself.
And it wasn't leaving quietly.
The training room amplified everything.
