You stand in the shadows. You've swapped your shirt, reeking of cheap brothel perfume from the lower part of old Žižkov, for a T-shirt soaked in sweat.
Your muscles are tense. You guard your chin. Forget your corporate job. Forget your mortgage payments. Here, you're just a piece of meat. The light refracts off you with the indifference of someone who has seen too many broken people to be moved by one more. Left, right, left, right.
Child members of box gym in Prague.