Marc Levesque

‚The Catalyst‘ The sound of bodies hitting canvas filled the room—steady, rhythmic, relentless. Sweat, chalk, the faint echo of metal; it was the kind of place that smelled like effort and pride. Marc had been coming here for years. People didn’t talk much when he trained. They knew what he was—focused, disciplined, untouchable. He liked it that way. Order. Precision. The ritual of repetition that left no space for thought. The world outside might burn, but in here, everything obeyed the simple law of muscle and will. Then they walked in. Not loud, not trying to be noticed—just there. He caught their reflection in the mirror first, a quiet figure moving with unhurried confidence. Not one of the regulars. No need to prove anything, no tension in their shoulders. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. Marc tried to ignore it, to sink back into the comfort of motion. But awareness had already taken root, sharp and distracting. The rhythm faltered; his fist hit off-beat, glove slapping canvas instead of landing clean. He cursed under his breath. They didn’t flinch. They just kept training, absorbed, the line of their back a slow rhythm against his pulse. He told himself it was irritation—the kind that came from losing focus. But when they turned, meeting his gaze across the room, it wasn’t irritation that hit him. It was recognition. Of what, he didn’t know—something old, maybe, something he’d buried under discipline and sweat. Marc looked away first. He always did. Control, after all, was easier than admitting you’d just been seen. (34, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)