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Chen Feng bit down.
The rust flaked off on his tongue, bitter and chemical, like licking a battery. His teeth scraped metal. The edge dug into his gum and he tasted blood mixing with iron oxide, but he didn't stop. He bit harder.
The corner of the chunk broke off with a crunch that made his molars scream.
He chewed.
It shouldn't be possible. The rust crumbled into grit, but the iron underneath was solid, cold, wrong. His jaw hurt. His teeth were going to crack. But that hunger, that thing twisting in his gut, it didn't care. It wanted this. It needed this.
He swallowed.
The lump dragged down his throat like a knife. He gagged, doubled over, slapped a hand against the wall to stay upright. His vision blurred. The gym floor tilted.
"Kid?"
Boss Zhao's voice came from somewhere far away. Chen Feng couldn't answer. His stomach clenched, and for a second he thought he'd puke the whole thing back up, but then the pain spiked, white-hot, and he folded.
He hit the concrete on his knees.
"What the hell did you eat?" Zhao crouched next to him, not touching, just staring. "You look green."
Chen Feng tried to say something, but his throat locked up. The fire in his gut spread, crawling up his ribs, down into his legs. It felt like his insides were being scraped raw, rewritten, torn apart and stitched back wrong.
"I'm calling someone," Zhao muttered, pulling out his phone.
"No." Chen Feng forced the word out. His voice sounded like gravel. "No hospital."
"You're gonna die on my floor, I'm calling."
"No." He grabbed Zhao's wrist. His fingers were shaking, but his grip held. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're eating trash."
Chen Feng let go and pushed himself up. His legs felt like jelly, but they held. The fire in his gut was still there, but it wasn't spreading anymore. It was sinking in. Deep. Like something inside him had opened up and swallowed it whole.
"I'm fine," he said again.
Zhao stared at him for a long moment, then pocketed his phone. "Your funeral. Clean up the blood, you're dripping."
Chen Feng looked down. There was a dark smear on the concrete where he'd been kneeling, and his lip had split open again. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and left a red streak.
"Yeah."
Zhao walked off, muttering something about liability.
Chen Feng stayed there, leaning against the wall, trying to breathe. His whole body felt wrong. Not broken, not sick. Just different. Like someone had swapped out his bones while he wasn't looking.
He flexed his fingers. They didn't hurt.
His ribs didn't hurt.
He pressed a hand to his side, where the finance bro had landed that last body shot, the one that had folded him against the ropes. He pressed hard. No pain. Not even a bruise.
"What the hell," he whispered.
He pushed off the wall and took a step. His legs were steady. He took another. The gym felt smaller, sharper, like every detail had been turned up. He could hear the buzz of the overhead lights, the drip of the leaking pipe in the back, the hum of traffic outside.
He walked over to the heavy bag in the corner, the one with the duct tape holding the split seam together. He stood in front of it, rolled his shoulders.
The fire in his gut pulsed.
He threw a jab.
It felt normal. Same speed, same snap. He threw another, then a cross. His knuckles hit the bag with the same dull thud they always did.
Nothing special.
He stepped back, frowning. Maybe he'd imagined it. Maybe the hunger had just been hunger, and the pain was just his body finally giving up after three rounds of getting his face smashed in.
He turned to walk away.
Then the fire pulsed again, harder this time, and something in his chest shifted.
Not his heart. Deeper than that.
He turned back to the bag. His hands curled into fists without him thinking about it. His breathing slowed. The buzz of the lights faded. The whole world narrowed down to the bag, the tape, the worn leather.
He threw a hook.
The impact cracked through the gym like a gunshot.
The bag didn't swing. It *lurched*, the chain snapping tight, the whole rack groaning. Chen Feng stared at his hand. His knuckles were red, but they didn't hurt. The bag had a dent in it. A real dent, not just a compressed spot. The leather had caved in.
"Kid."
He spun around. Zhao was standing in the doorway to his office, arms crossed, staring.
"What did you just do?"
Chen Feng opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn't know.
"I don't—"
"Hit it again."
"What?"
"You heard me. Hit it again."
Chen Feng turned back to the bag. His heart was pounding now, loud in his ears. He set his feet, pulled his hand back, threw another hook.
The bag exploded.
Not literally. But the seam split open, sand pouring out in a grey stream, and the chain snapped at the top link. The whole thing crashed to the floor, the rack tipping forward, one of the legs bending under the weight.
Chen Feng stumbled back, staring.
Zhao walked over, slow, and crouched next to the wreckage. He picked up a piece of the chain. The metal was sheared clean through, not bent, not stretched. Sheared.
He looked up at Chen Feng.
"What the *hell* did you eat?"
Chen Feng didn't answer. He couldn't. His hands were still curled into fists, and the fire in his gut was roaring now, hot and hungry and alive.
Something inside him had woken up.
And it wanted more.
"Boss," he said, his voice rough. "I need another fight."
Zhao stood up, still holding the chain. He looked at Chen Feng, then at the broken rack, then back at Chen Feng.
"Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, I think you do."
He pulled out his phone and started dialing.
Chen Feng stood there, breathing hard, staring at his hands. The knuckles were red, but the skin hadn't split. No blood. No breaks.
He'd just put a dent in a hundred-pound bag and snapped a steel chain.
With one punch.
His stomach growled.
Not the same hunger as before. This was different. Sharper. It wasn't food he wanted.
It was another hit.
Another beating.
Another piece of metal.
He didn't understand it, but he could feel it, bone-deep. Whatever had started when he bit down on that rust-eaten chunk, it wasn't done.
It was just getting started.
Zhao hung up and looked at him. "Got a guy. Wants to test you tonight. Warehouse fight, no ref, five hundred if you last three rounds."
"I'll do it."
"You sure? This guy's not some finance bro. He's got a record."
Chen Feng looked at his hands again. The fire pulsed.
"I'm sure."
Zhao nodded. "Good. Be here at ten. And kid?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't eat any more trash before the fight."
Chen Feng almost laughed, but it came out wrong, more like a cough. He nodded and walked toward the locker room. His legs felt strange, too light, like he was floating an inch off the ground.
He needed to figure out what was happening to him.
But first, he needed to hit something again.
The fire wouldn't let him think about anything else.