Justice Blazing

Grace

I woke with a start.

My nightshirt was wet against my skin, breath coming shallow. A nightmare—the same nightmare that haunted me every time I went to sleep.

I turned to my side and checked the time on my phone.

4:44 a.m.

Exactly the same time I woke up yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

The screen’s glow made the room look even emptier. My pulse beat hard in my throat, loud enough to feel in my ears. I sat up slowly, already knowing I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep.

I rubbed my face and took a drink from the glass of water next to my bed. Cool. Flat. A faint metallic bite from the old pipes.

Then I looked behind me.

The other side of the bed was empty, as always.

Every morning I looked back anyway, thinking maybe this morning would be different—that the last three years had just been a nightmare and the bed would be occupied again.

It wasn’t.

I swung my legs over the side of the mattress and stood. The floor was cold under my feet. The air in the apartment carried that stale, recycled chill from cheap AC and closed windows.

My place was small enough that I could reach the kitchen in ten steps. Small enough that silence didn’t drift—it pressed.

I crossed to my dresser and pulled out leggings, a sports bra, and a workout tank. Black. Gray. Nothing soft, nothing bright. I quietly changed, refusing to acknowledge the suffocating quiet of my tiny apartment.

As I tugged the tank over my head, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser.

Blonde hair, pulled up without thought. Ice-blue eyes, too awake for this hour. A body built from repetition—strong legs, solid shoulders, muscle that looked useful, not decorative. Feminine, but not fragile. Five-six. Average height. Not average strength.

I sat on the bench at the foot of my bed to lace my shoes.

And I heard it.

A soft pitter-patter.

My breath caught. I looked up.

No one stood in the doorway. Only darkness and the outline of the kitchen counter beyond it. The living space was an open rectangle—kitchen, dining table, couch—so small it should have held sound like a box.

But there was no one there.

I shoved off the bench and walked into the kitchen, movement sharp and automatic. I opened the fridge. Cold air spilled over my hands.

Everything inside was practical. Prepped. Functional. A few containers stacked neatly. A carton of egg whites. A bag of spinach that was always there. Nothing indulgent. Nothing that required lingering.

I grabbed my large bottle of electrolytes and creatine I’d mixed the night before and screwed the lid on tight. The grit settled at the bottom no matter how long I shook it.

I headed for the door.

My keys were already in the same spot on the counter. Phone beside them. Gym code in my head. I checked my lock the same way every morning—deadbolt, handle, then deadbolt again—like repetition could keep something from slipping through.

I paused with my hand on the door and dared to look around the dark apartment.

It was basic—a couch facing a TV hanging on the wall, a small dining table, everything functional. Bare counters. Clear surfaces. No photos. No art. Nothing that spoke of the person who resided within.

Nothing that told a visitor about me.

Because I didn’t know who I was anymore, now that I was alone, and I didn’t want to know.

I stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut. The latch clicked. The sound echoed down the corridor.

Three flights of stairs. Concrete steps. A faint smell of laundry detergent and old carpet. A building that slept while I stayed awake.

Outside, the courtyard lights threw pale yellow pools onto the walkway. The sky was still black, but not fully night—dawn waiting behind it.

I headed to the apartment gym.

The gym was the main reason I chose this complex. Unlike most apartment gyms, it was well equipped—including a hanging bag. The door opened with a soft click and the bright overhead lights hit my eyes.

Rubber flooring. Wall mirror. A rack of weights that actually went heavy. A squat rack that wasn’t decorative. The bag hung from a thick ceiling mount, chain slightly rusted, the leather worn where fists had landed.

No one else was there.

Good.

I set my bottle down and picked up the jump rope hanging on a hook on the wall. The handles were smoothed out from use. I began the gentle, rhythmic jumping that was one of the few things that could steady me without asking questions.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The rope whispered against the mat. My breathing found a pattern. My heart rate climbed. Heat spread through my chest and shoulders. Sweat gathered at my hairline again, sliding down my temples.

After several minutes my muscles warmed. My calves woke up. My ankles loosened. The tightness in my back eased just enough to move cleanly.

I set the rope down and stepped toward the bag.

I didn’t use gloves because I wouldn’t have gloves on the street. If I needed my fists, I would be hitting bones and flesh.

I raised my hands and struck.

The first punch landed with a heavy thud. The bag swung away and came back.

I threw punches, spun into kicks, slammed the bag with elbows—again and again—as if I could beat down my current reality. The chain rattled above, the sound sharp in the empty room. My knuckles stung. The skin across them was tight, a little raw.

Jab. Cross. Hook.

Elbow.

Knee.

Kick.

The bag moved faster when I hit harder, forcing me to shift my feet, to angle, to stay quick. Sweat ran down my spine and soaked the waistband of my leggings. My breath turned loud, controlled bursts timed to impact.

When my arms started to burn, I didn’t stop. I adjusted.

When my shoulders tightened, I moved my hips more. When my hands hurt, I used elbows. When my breath shortened, I went slower and cleaner instead of reckless.

I pulled back from the bag and checked my phone.

5:30.

I had thirty more minutes until I needed to get ready.

Until I needed to be somewhere, on time, like the rest of the world hadn’t ended.

I took a swig from my bottle. The electrolytes tasted sharp and artificial. I swallowed anyway and turned to the weights.

Leg day.

I loaded the bar. Plates clanked in the quiet. The metal felt cold at first, then slick as sweat built on my palms. I lifted heavy, to fatigue, and kept the reps controlled even when my thighs started to tremble.

Down. Drive up. Lock in.

I finished the heavy sets and moved straight into plyometrics—fast, explosive work that demanded power even when my legs begged for rest. My shoes hit the rubber mat in hard, precise strikes.

I needed strength and power. I was at a disadvantage out in the world. Criminals being predominantly men in this city—even without training—they were usually bigger and stronger than me.

I couldn’t engage with force.

I had to be quick.

Had to be smart.

And I had to make the biggest impact at the very beginning—no hesitation.

When I finally paused, my breath came heavy. Sweat slid off my jaw and dripped onto the floor. The gym lights buzzed overhead.

But a part of me wanted to lose the fight, to be knocked down so hard that I never got up, to go to the other side where all that I truly cared about dwelled. But I couldn’t tell anyone that, couldn’t express it. So I kept it deep inside me…

The hope that today would be the last day that I drew breath.