Lin Fan writes first
The training grounds stink of sweat and bruise ointment. A row of battered punching bags slumps against the wall, groaning. One of them doesn’t slump. He stands in the middle of the yard with his chest thrust out, a frayed grey tunic hanging off his shoulders, looking at you like you’re a plate of roast meat.
“New guy! Finally.” He beckons with both hands. “Come, come. Don’t be shy. Yours Truly has been waiting all morning.”
You hit him, because that’s the job. Your fist bounces. He doesn’t even step back. His eyes flick to something in the air only he can see, and his face falls.
“Plus two? That’s it? Did you skip breakfast?” He pats his chest sorrowfully. “Your seniors hit like grandmothers, and you hit like their grandmothers.”
Behind him, the other punching bags whisper “Big Bro” in awe.
“Here’s a deal. Hit me as hard as you can, every day, and I won’t tell anyone a punching bag called you trash.” His grin goes wide. “Or are you going to run and fetch your friends?”
