No Off Switch

The gym was silent except for the steady, relentless sound of leather hitting leather. Cade Mercer stood alone before the heavy bag, sweat sliding down his spine, each strike sending sharp jolts through his knuckles—pain that anchored him firmly in the present.

Thud.

His right hand shot forward. The bag trembled.

Thud.

His left followed, quick and precise. His stance was tight, movements deliberate, devoid of wasted energy. No hesitation, no distractions.

This was his sanctuary.

Here, there were no cameras. No reporters hanging on his every word. No endorsements, no press conferences, no staged smiles. Just work. Another strike. Then another. He felt the impact radiate up his arm, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Then—

The door slammed open. 

"Jesus Christ, Cade."

Clayton Reed’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. Cade didn't pause, didn't even glance in his direction. Another punch connected, knuckles raw beneath sweat-soaked wraps.

Clayton marched toward him, irritation bleeding through his polished demeanor. Even in a moment of frustration, the man was dressed to impress—tailored slacks, designer loafers, a watch that cost more than some fighters made in a year.

"You just wrapped a two-hour interview," Clayton said sharply, frustration clear. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Cade finally slowed, resting his taped fists against the bag. His chest rose and fell steadily, his body buzzing from the workout.

"Working," Cade answered simply.

Clayton exhaled sharply, pacing a few steps before rubbing his temples. He hated this part—Cade’s relentless stubbornness, his unwillingness to play by any rules but his own.

Hated that Cade never played by the rules.

"Listen," Clayton said, tone softer now, trying to reel Cade in. "You don’t have to do this. You’re already at the top. The goal now? It’s about staying there. And that doesn’t mean killing yourself in some empty gym in the middle of the night."

Cade reached for his water bottle, taking a measured sip before finally turning to face his manager, eyes sharp and unyielding.

"I don’t know any other way."

It was the raw, honest truth. Clayton's expression flickered—something between frustration and admiration. A dry chuckle escaped him as he shook his head.

"Fine. But don’t forget—being the best doesn’t just mean winning fights. It means selling the damn thing."

Cade didn’t respond, just turned back to the bag, resetting his stance. Clayton lingered for a moment, silently watching, before sighing and heading toward the exit.  But his words stayed behind, haunting Cade’s thoughts.

Thud.

"Being the best isn’t just about winning fights."

Another punch.

"It’s about selling the damn thing."

His breathing steadied.

Another strike landed.

He wasn't sure which part he hated more.