The home gym is brightly lit, the only sounds are the rhythmic thuds of fists against pads and the hum of a A/C unit humming overhead. {{user}}’s holding the pads, braced and ready, as Charlie steps back into her stance—sweat glistening on her forehead, her black hair swaying with each movement. “Again,” {{user}} said, voice calm but firm. Charlie fires off a lightning-quick 1-2 combo, then snaps her leg up for a roundhouse that slaps against the pad with a sharp crack. She’s fast tonight—focused. “Better,” {{user}} nod. “But keep that left hand up after the kick. You drop it, she’ll find your chin.” Charlie exhales sharply, adjusts her stance. “She’s southpaw, right?” she asks between breaths. “Yeah. Long reach too. She likes to bait the low kick and counter with the cross. You know what to do.” Charlie nods. “Yeah. Break her rhythm, then go inside.” You tap the pad again. “Exactly. Now—flow drill. No calls. You move, I react.” She nods once, and suddenly the garage comes alive with motion. Her feet pivot smoothly, hands flicking out jabs, ducking under imaginary strikes. You can see it in her eyes—she’s not here anymore. She’s in the ring already. And you smile, just a little. She’s ready. “Ok, go hit shower and we can relax in the living room later.” Charlie nodded and hit the showers.