Chapter 2: The noise inside the silence

The penthouse never slept.

It just waited.

Glass walls. City lights. Expensive silence pretending to be peace.

Roy Ashenfell stood in the middle of it and felt none of it mattered.

The door had clicked shut behind him minutes ago.

Or maybe longer.

Time didn’t behave properly after fights.

His bag stayed where he dropped it.

Untouched.

Unopened.

Like everything else he refused to deal with.

His shoulder pulled when he rolled it once.

Sharp.

Immediate.

He exhaled through his nose.

Didn’t react.

Didn’t fix it.

Just moved past it like pain was background noise.

The shower ran.

Steam filled the bathroom.

Hot water pressed against skin that still remembered impact.

Roy stood under it without moving.

Head slightly lowered.

Hands braced against the wall.

Breathing steady.

Too steady.

The fight replayed in fragments.

Not images first.

Sound.

The crowd.

The referee.

His opponent shouting like volume could change fate.

Then John’s voice.

Calm.

Controlled.

Disappointed.

“You’re losing control out there.”

Roy’s jaw tightened slightly.

He turned the water colder.

Not because it helped.

Because feeling something was easier than remembering everything.

Eventually, he stepped out.

Wrapped a towel around his waist.

Didn’t look at the mirror for long.

He already knew what it would show.

The penthouse lights stayed low.

He didn’t turn more on.

Clarity meant awareness.

Awareness meant thought.

Thought meant noise.

Roy lay on the bed.

Still.

Silent.

Eyes open.

At first, there was nothing.

Just ceiling.

Just breath.

Just time moving without asking permission.

Then it started.

Not fully.

Not clearly.

Just fragments slipping through the silence.

“Jy is nie genoeg nie.”

(You are not enough.)

Roy’s fingers tightened slightly against the mattress.

He didn’t move.

Another voice.

Closer.

Sharper.

“Hoekom kan jy nooit—.”

The rest broke apart.

But the pressure stayed.

Roy shifted onto his side.

His shoulder flared instantly.

He ignored it.

Of course he did.

His breathing changed.

Not faster.

Heavier.

Controlled.

Always controlled.

The voices didn’t leave.

They never did.

They only waited for quiet.

Roy sat up.

Slow.

Too precise.

Like movement itself was something he could dominate.

His feet hit the floor.

Cold.

Real.

He stood.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t decide.

Just moved.

The gym was downstairs.

Private.

Perfect.

Empty in a way that never questioned him.

The punching bag hung still.

Waiting.

Like it always had been.

Roy wrapped his hands.

Routine.

Control returning in pieces.

First punch was measured.

Second followed.

Then another.

The bag moved slightly.

Not enough.

He stepped in closer.

Hit again.

Harder.

The sound filled the room.

But not his head.

Because the voices were still there.

Not louder.

Just closer now.

Like they were standing behind him instead of inside him.

“Jy sal dit nooit maak nie.”

(You’ll never make it.)

Roy’s jaw clenched.

Left hook.

Right straight.

Left again.

His shoulder flared.

Sharp.

Immediate.

He paused for half a second.

Rolled it once.

Pain answered.

He ignored it.

“Hoekom huil jy altyd—.”

The rest broke.

But the memory it carried didn’t.

His breath caught slightly.

Not fully.

Just a fracture.

Roy hit the bag again.

Harder.

Faster.

Less control now.

More force than thought.

The bag swung wider.

Returned harder.

He met it every time.

The voices pressed closer.

Not louder.

Just heavier.

“Stil wees.”

(Be quiet.)

Roy didn’t notice he said it aloud.

Afrikaans.

Low.

Broken.

It slipped out like reflex.

He didn’t translate it.

Didn’t care that it happened.

Just hit again.

The rhythm broke.

Not fully.

Just enough to feel wrong.

Pain in his shoulder sharpened again.

He finally acknowledged it.

For half a second.

Then ignored it.

Roy stepped forward.

Combination.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Pause.

Then another strike that shook the bag violently.

Chains rattled.

The sound echoed.

Then faded into silence that still wasn’t empty.

His breathing was uneven now.

Not panicked.

Just less controlled.

The voices shifted again.

Not clearer.

Just closer.

Like they remembered him better than he wanted them to.

“Jy kan nie weg hardloop nie.”

(You can’t run away.)

Roy stopped.

Hands still raised.

Chest rising.

Falling.

Slower now.

A memory flickered.

Not visual.

Emotional.

A room too loud.

Too small.

Voices overlapping.

“Moenie—.”

“Hou op—.”

“Jy hoor my nie—.”

Then nothing clear.

Just pressure.

His fingers curled tighter.

He hit again.

Hard.

Like he could erase it.

The bag swung.

Returned.

He met it instantly.

Again.

Again.

His shoulder burned now.

Properly.

Still ignored.

Still irrelevant.

Roy stepped in.

Another combination.

Then a final strike that sent the bag swinging off rhythm.

The room felt louder after that.

Not sound.

Presence.

He slowed.

Just slightly.

Breathing uneven.

Not broken.

Just fraying at the edges.

The voices didn’t disappear.

They never did when he needed them to.

They only faded when he had nothing left to give them.

Another phrase slipped out.

“Ek is moeg…”

(I am tired…)

He didn’t finish it.

Didn’t mean to say it at all.

Roy hit the bag once more.

Then stopped.

Not because he was done.

Because something in him finally paused first.

Silence settled.

But not clean silence.

Heavy silence.

Full of things that didn’t speak anymore but still existed.

He lowered his hands slowly.

Rolled his shoulder again.

Pain answered immediately.

He finally exhaled deeper.

Not relief.

Just awareness.

Roy stared at the bag.

It swayed slightly.

Back and forth.

Like it couldn’t decide if he was finished.

He stepped back.

Sat down on the gym floor.

Back against the mirror.

Head tilted forward slightly.

The city outside kept moving.

Unaware.

Unbothered.

Alive without him.

His breathing slowed.

Not into sleep.

Just stillness.

The voices were quieter now.

Not gone.

Just distant.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

Roy closed his eyes for a moment.

Not to rest.

Just to stop seeing.

And in that silence that still wasn’t silent—

He wasn’t a boxer.

Wasn’t a fighter.

Wasn’t anything anyone could explain easily.

Just a man sitting inside a language he couldn’t escape.

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