The warehouse smelled of rust and dust, its cavernous space echoing the faint hum of the city outside. Dim, flickering overhead lights cast long shadows across the cracked concrete floor. The air was thick with the scent of old metal and sweat, remnants of whatever industrial work had been done here before it was abandoned.
A single heavy bag hung from a rusted chain, swaying slightly from my last punch.
I shook out my hands, exhaling through my nose. Something felt off.
My brows furrowed.
I wasn't just swinging blindly—I understood power, momentum, control. My body knew how to hit. But there was no technique. No instinctual flow that I should have had by now.
I clenched and unclenched my fists, staring at them.
Why don't I have a single skill from this job?
It didn't make sense.
When I became a detective, the skills flooded in immediately—Observation, Deduction, Interrogation.
When I picked up my Firefighter job, my body sharpened—Fire Suppression, Heat Resistance.
