Noir

Ce qui est fait dans le noir (what's done in the dark...)

He moved with the precision and agility of fighters with years of experience beyond his own. Give him enough time and he'd excel at practically anything. Though occasionally quite easily distracted, he could focus when it counted. Others pounded speed bags nearby, some pummeled punching bags, but tunnel vision had set in and he might as well have been the only person in the room.

"Protect your left!" came a shout from somewhere behind him. Headgear and gloves intact, he raised his left arm to do as he'd been told, just in time to block a sharp left jab aimed right at his face.

Harry was past the fear of getting hit, having taken several over the course of his career. He'd learned to roll with the punches and now boasted the stamina to go toe-to-toe with the best of them. Not to mention, fear wasn't so hard to float past where there was confidence abundant.

Confidence hard earned but now deeply rooted. A bell rang and both Harry and his sparring partner shifted from fighting stance to relax, bumping fists before parting ways. Ivan yanked fresh towels from across the ropes as two of his best students retreated to their respective corners, tossing towels and water bottles toward each.

"Looking good out there, kid," Ivan said through his accent, hard, stony expression intact as he approached Harry, winking. It was the highest compliment one could receive from Ivan Mikhailov, who'd immigrated from Moscow over two decades prior. Now in his early sixties, he'd earned an unparalleled kind of respect throughout the community.

He'd been front and center at the Rumble in the Jungle in 1974, Muhammad versus Foreman, the very match that ignited the spark to pursue his own dream. He'd opened his own training center after several difficult years in the United States, the very training center long established in West Hollywood.

"Thanks," Harry panted, studying Ivan as he fussed over him, which consisted of checking him for wounds, despite the fact that he hadn't taken any hard hits. He allowed the inspection, trying to remain serious but Ivan's own seriousness was comical. "I'm fine, you know?"

"Of course he's fine," said the brawny, dark-haired opponent, a single, robust arm draped across the middle rope to his right. He yanked a torn t-shirt over his head, covering a sweaty, tattooed torso, sighing. "Fucker didn't let me get one good hit in." He flipped a middle finger as Harry laughed quietly from his own corner.

"I counted four, Deepak," Ivan disagreed, turning on his heels to give him the same treatment. General consensus was that Ivan was a hard ass, and he had been for months following Harry's initial meeting of him, but it was safe to assume it wasn't impossible to work one's way into his softer graces.

"I said good hits," Deepak said, wincing as Ivan examined a small cut on his chin from a previous bout. "Fuckin 'a, Ivan."

"Those were bad ones?" Harry asked, mild worry setting in as he watched Deepak smirk.

"Meaning I could knock you on your ass, but I chose not to."

Ivan snorted. "You would have to catch him, first. Harry's faster. Footwork drills, I keep telling you. Stubborn bastard," he ranted thickly, slipping in several Russian terms they'd learned could mean anything between 'moron' and 'asshole'. "You humble yourself, accept your body and limitations, work to improve or you become a has-been before you even start."

Criticism was never easy to take, especially when it was given harshly, but deep down, Deepak knew Ivan only got worked up when he cared. Which was why he didn't argue any further. He rolled dark, deep set eyes but kept quiet. Industrial electric fans scattered throughout the building kept the stuffy gym from being completely unbearable.

Covered in a thin layer of sweat, Harry rested his head on one of the ropes, basking in the breeze flowing from the ceiling fans spinning overhead. Jay Rock's ' Win ' blasted from the mounted speakers around the room, barely audible over the sounds of heavy grunting and exertion, falling weights, and jump ropes hitting the concrete.