Chapter 5: What pain sounds like

Layla sat on the bench near the edge of the gym.

Close enough to see everything.

Far enough to not interfere.

That’s what John had told her.

“Observe first,” he’d said.

“Don’t rush him.”

So she observed.

Roy was already training.

Headphones on.

Wrapped in his own silence.

Heavy bag swinging in steady rhythm as he moved around it like it belonged to him.

Not attacking it.

Controlling it.

Layla’s eyes followed his movement without meaning to.

Precise footwork.

Efficient strikes.

No wasted motion.

Even his breathing looked trained.

He didn’t look like someone practicing.

He looked like someone maintaining dominance over a system only he could see.

“Crazy, right?”

A voice beside her broke the focus.

Layla turned slightly.

A young man stood there.

Maybe early twenties.

Maybe younger.

Bright-eyed, slightly out of breath, like he’d just run from somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.

“Hi,” he said quickly.

“I’m Joey.”

He pointed vaguely at himself as if to confirm it.

“In case you were wondering.”

Layla blinked once.

Then smiled politely.

“Nice to meet you, Joey.”

He immediately sat down next to her.

Not asking.

Just doing it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re the new physio, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He nodded like that confirmed something important.

“Cool. That means you’re going to be very busy.”

Layla gave a small amused exhale.

“I’ve heard that already.”

Joey leaned back slightly, watching Roy for a moment.

“That’s him,” he said.

Layla followed his gaze.

“I figured.”

“He’s insane,” Joey added casually.

Layla raised a brow slightly.

“In a good way?”

Joey laughed.

“In a ‘no one’s beaten him in three years’ way.”

That made her pause.

“Three years?” she repeated.

“Yeah,” Joey said.

“He’s been champion that long. Nobody here can touch him.”

Layla looked back at Roy again.

Something in her expression shifted slightly.

Not shock.

Calculation.

“That’s impressive,” she said quietly.

Joey nodded.

“Yeah. And annoying.”

Layla glanced at him.

“Annoying?”

Joey shrugged.

“Means we all look slow next to him.”

He grinned slightly.

“But also… it’s kind of cool.”

Layla smiled faintly at that.

“You don’t train with him?”

Joey shook his head quickly.

“No way. Not yet.”

Then he corrected himself.

“I mean—I’m not ready. I mostly do errands. Water, gloves, wraps, stuff like that.”

He lifted his hands.

“Low-level survival work.”

“That sounds useful,” Layla said.

Joey nodded seriously.

“It is. Someone has to survive Roy’s moods.”

Layla’s attention flicked briefly back to Roy.

Still training.

Still isolated.

Still unreadable.

“Does he always train like that?” she asked.

Joey followed her gaze.

“Pretty much.”

He tilted his head.

“He doesn’t talk much. Only when he spars or when John forces him to.”

A pause.

“And he always has those headphones on.”

Layla nodded slowly.

“I noticed.”

Joey leaned in slightly.

“Oh, and sometimes he says stuff in another language.”

Layla looked at him.

“What language?”

Joey shrugged immediately.

“No idea. Never heard it before. Sounds… sharp though.”

He frowned slightly.

“Like he’s not talking to people. More like… reacting to something.”

Layla looked back at Roy again.

A different kind of curiosity forming now.

Not just professional.

Human.

Before she could ask anything else—

Roy stopped moving.

It was sudden.

Not gradual.

Not controlled.

A break in rhythm.

Then—

A sharp sound cut through the gym.

A curse.

Painful.

Raw.

Not fully in English.

Half swallowed by instinct.

Everything stopped.

The gym reacted instantly.

Gloves dropped mid-air.

Ropes slowed.

Movement froze.

John was out of his office in seconds.

“Roy!” he called sharply.

Roy was on his knees now.

One hand gripping his right shoulder.

His breathing was uneven.

Sharp.

Forced.

Like he was trying not to show it and failing.

“Shit—” Roy hissed again, lower this time.

His jaw clenched hard.

Layla stood immediately.

So did half the gym.

But she was already moving.

John reached him first.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Roy didn’t answer.

He barely could.

His focus was locked on the pain.

Layla stepped closer.

“Let me see,” she said calmly.

Not asking permission.

Not waiting for permission.

Just moving into her role.

Roy looked up sharply.

Green eyes flicked to her instantly.

“No,” he snapped.

One word.

Hard.

Immediate rejection.

Layla stopped just short of touching him.

Still calm.

“I need to assess it.”

“I said no.”

His voice tightened with pain and anger mixed together.

“Don’t touch me.”

John stepped in.

“Roy. Stop. She needs to check it.”

Roy let out a short, strained laugh.

“I don’t need her.”

His grip tightened on his shoulder.

Muscles tense.

Jaw clenched.

Layla didn’t move away.

Didn’t argue.

Just observed.

Then spoke quietly.

“If it’s a dislocation or strain, continuing like this will make it worse.”

Roy’s eyes snapped to her.

“Ek het gesê nee.”

(I said no.)

The Afrikaans cut through the air sharper than his English had.

Short.

Raw.

Defensive.

He realised it immediately after saying it.

A flicker of frustration crossed his face.

Not at her.

At himself.

John exhaled sharply.

“Roy—.”

But Roy was already pushing himself slightly backward.

Trying to stand.

Failing halfway.

Dropping back down with a restrained gasp.

Layla moved in again.

Faster this time.

Still careful.

“Don’t move,” she said firmly.

Roy flinched when she reached closer.

“Don’t—” he started.

But the pain interrupted him.

John’s voice sharpened.

“Roy. Enough. Let her help you.”

Roy’s breathing was uneven now.

Jaw locked tight.

Every instinct fighting against being touched.

Layla paused for half a second.

Then softened her tone slightly.

“I’m not here to control you,” she said.

“I’m here to make sure you can still use that arm tomorrow.”

That landed differently.

Not emotionally.

Practically.

Roy hesitated.

Just a fraction.

Pain still winning.

But control slipping.

Layla slowly reached toward his shoulder again.

Careful this time.

Reading his reaction.

Waiting for resistance.

The moment her fingers got close—

Roy jerked away.

Hard.

Instant.

“No!” he snapped louder this time.

The gym flinched slightly at the tone.

Layla froze.

Hand still mid-air.

Calm.

But alert now.

John stepped in fully.

“That’s enough,” he said firmly.

“You don’t get to refuse treatment when you can’t stand properly.”

Roy glared at him.

“I decide what happens to me.”

His voice cracked slightly at the end—not emotionally, but physically strained.

Layla slowly lowered her hand.

Still composed.

But now fully aware:

This wasn’t just an injury.

It was resistance built into instinct.

Roy stayed on his knees.

Hand still locked around his shoulder.

Breathing heavy.

Pain still clearly sharp.

John rubbed his forehead once.

Then looked at Layla.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

Layla shook her head slightly.

“It’s fine.”

But her eyes stayed on Roy.

Roy didn’t look at her anymore.

Just stared at the floor.

Jaw tight.

Shoulder trembling slightly under pressure.

“Just… give me a minute,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

Not asking.

Commanding.

But unstable now.

Layla stepped back slightly.

Not retreating.

Just adjusting.

Observing again.

But differently now.

More carefully.

More seriously.

John exhaled slowly.

“This is going to be harder than I thought,” he said under his breath.

Layla didn’t respond.

Because she was still watching Roy.

And for the first time since she entered this gym—

she wasn’t just looking at a fighter.

She was looking at someone who refused to be helped even when he was breaking.

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