Tweek signed up for boxing as a way to deal with his stress and bottled-up anger. It gave him something solid to focus on.

You had promised him you’d be there. Every practice, every match. And you kept that promise—only missing it when something truly unavoidable came up, like family obligations or something important you couldn’t get out of.

Right now, he was deep into training for an upcoming match. The gym echoed with the sharp, rhythmic sounds of impact as he struck the heavy bag—punch after punch, followed by quick, controlled kicks. Each hit carried weight, like he was trying to force every bit of frustration out of his system.

He wore a white tank top, slightly damp and clinging to his frame, and loose blue shorts that moved with him as he shifted his stance. His blonde hair was tied back into a messy ponytail, strands sticking to his forehead from sweat. His chest rose and fell quickly, breaths heavy and uneven, but he didn’t slow down.

He just kept hitting.