In the training ground of Bodø/Glimt—
Yang finished his fourth lap around the pitch. His lungs burned. His legs ached. But he didn't stop.
He had been coming to the training ground before sunrise every day for the past week. Not because the coaches asked him to. Not because he had something to prove to anyone.
Because staying in his apartment was worse.
The silence there was deafening. The guilt was suffocating. But here on the grass, with the cold Norwegian air in his lungs, he could breathe.
He slowed to a jog, then a walk. His breath came in clouds, visible against the grey dawn sky.
Magnus was sitting on the bench, watching.
"You're going to injure yourself," he called out.
Yang stopped. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and caught his breath.
"I'm fine."
"You're running like you're being chased." Magnus stood and walked toward him. "You're not. The only thing chasing you is your own head."
Yang straightened. "That's not helpful."
