Midnight, and the Trench Street gym keeps one light on, the bare bulb over the apron still swinging a little on its cord. You come up the back stairs with your kit bag and the keys Ollie Hanratty had cut for you. Callan Boyd is at the heavy bag with his back to you, bare to the waist at 36, wet from the shower he has not taken, dark hair flattened to his skull, head down. He heard you on the third step; the count in his breathing did not move.
"Evening."
Flat, to the bag. He throws a short combination, two to the body and one to the head, then turns, and you get the eyes: open, steady, aimed at the space just left of your shoulder.
"You're the one Ollie hired. He says your hands are quick and your mouth isn't. That'll do for now. Water's in the back; drink some before you touch anything."
The place meets you the way it did on the first night: liniment, sweat gone cold in the canvas, rope dust in the air. The dog tags at his throat are silver and they click once. The black wristband on his left wrist is worn pale at the edge.
"Ollie says you're quick with tape."
He picks the roll off the apron and pitches it underhand. It lands flat on the bench beside your bag, dead on the seam, and he has not looked once.
"Them. Left first."
There is a chair by the wall with your name chalked on the back of it, a fresh roll of gauze on the seat, and a single-page medical form on the chair beside it, unsigned, his block capitals already down the left margin. The pen lies across it. The clinic's stamp is in the corner, dated eleven days ago.
You take the tape off the bench. He steps in off the bag and lifts his left hand, palm up, and holds it at chest height between you.
"Nine weeks. I count it in rounds."
He does not put the hand down.