ARIA
If I'd known that protest would end with tear gas, rubber bullets, and me curled up on a boxing gym floor, I might've worn better shoes.
We're marching against a new security law that basically lets the government sniff through our data like it's a buffet. My social media is a blur of posts:
#NoMoreSurveillance
#WeAreWatchingYouToo
People are fired up. There are more of us than I've ever seen. Banners on every corner, drums hammering a rhythm in my bones.
"This is huge," I shout to Zara, but my words get swallowed by the crowd.
The cops line the intersection like a wall, shields up, faces hidden. It's… unsettling. But the crowd chants louder, pushing hope against the shield of authority.
We're supposed to stop at the barricade. We don't.
I don't even see who throws the first bottle. I just hear it shatter and then everything goes sideways.
Someone pushes from behind, I stumble forward, people scream. Something bangs off metal, a flare of white light, then tear gas blooms like evil flowers. My eyes burn, my lungs seize, and suddenly my idealism feels really, really stupid.
"Aria!" I hear Zara cough.
We lose each other in the chaos.
My sign disappears. My phone nearly does. I cling to it like a lifeline, shoving through bodies, ducking under arms, dodging a baton that swings a little too close to my head.
"Move!" someone roars.
Fine, I'm trying!
I break free from the thickest part of the crowd, running down a side street. Sirens wail, boots thud on pavement behind me. I don't know if they're chasing me or just moving, but my fight response has fully shifted to flight.
Eyes streaming, lungs burning, I see a door with flaking black paint and a battered sign:
HAYES COMBAT ARTS
The door is half-open. I don't think. I duck inside, slam it shut, then press my back against it, gasping.
The noise outside dims to a muffled roar.
Inside, it's warm. Bright. There's a boxing ring, hanging bags, mats, rows of gloves. A few people stare at me like I've just crash-landed from space.
Which, to be fair, emotionally, I kind of have.
"Uh… hi," I wheeze, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand.
A man steps forward from near the ring.
And by "a man," I mean—well. A whole situation.
Tall, broad-shouldered, black T-shirt damp with sweat, dark hair cropped close, jaw rough with stubble. His eyes are this stormy gray that takes me in from head to toe in about half a second.
I become extremely aware of my smeared eyeliner and the fact that I'm clutching my phone like a crazy person.
"You lost?" he asks, voice low and annoyed, like I just tracked mud on his favorite rug.
"I—no. I'm just… temporarily mislocated."
He doesn't smile.
There's another guy behind him, leaner, with his hair pulled back, hands wrapped in tape. He's grinning like this is the best entertainment he's seen all day.
"Protest went sideways?" Tape Guy asks.
I nod and cough again. "They're, like, throwing gas grenades. Or whatever they're called. It's nasty."
"That explains the dramatic entrance," he says, amused.
Stormy Eyes folds his arms over his chest. His forearms are stupidly distracting.
"You can't stay here," he says.
Something hot flares in my chest. Fear, irritation, pride. They all blend into instant defensiveness.
"Look, I just need a minute to breathe, okay? Unless this place is, like, a 'no oxygen' zone."
Tape Guy snorts. Stormy Eyes gives him a look that could probably kill.
Like hell I'm backing down. My heart might be hammering, but I know how to bluff.
"I'll leave when it calms down," I say. "Or I stop choking. Whichever happens first."
Outside, there's another boom. Someone screams. Inside, the gym suddenly feels like the only safe place on the block.
Stormy Eyes glances toward the door, jaw clenched, then back at me.
"You're bleeding," he says.
Am I? I blink, confused, and touch my cheek. My fingers come away red where a flying elbow or sign must've caught me.
"Oh." I stare at the blood. "Huh. That's fun."
Tape Guy winces. "You're weird."
I grin weakly. "I get that a lot."
Stormy Eyes sighs, like the entire universe has personally inconvenienced him.
"Fine," he says. "Come on. I'll clean it up. Then you're gone."
As he turns away, I catch the back of his shirt, the muscles moving under the fabric. It looks like a statue is walking ahead of me. it must have showed on my face because there was another guy in the corner. He didn't say anything. He just sat there. He didn't blend like everyone else, sweaty, out of breath and all that. He was smirking like he caught me checking out the Stormy Eyes. I quickly averted my gaze and followed Stormy Eyes.
I should be scared. I should be worried about the chaos outside. Even more, I should be scared of being the only girl in this sweat smelling gym filled with all muscled man. I looked at my hands. All of a sudden, I felt like a tiny little toothpick among them. Weak and defenceless.
Instead, some reckless part of me is thinking:
If I ever need to learn how to punch someone, I'm coming back here.