Chiron
Santa Monica, California – early morning
The sun was just starting to drag itself over the edge of the ocean when I stepped outside the rental house. Cool breeze, salt in the air, gulls already arguing over God knows what. California never changed much. No matter how many years passed, no matter how many fighters I brought through here.
But Lachlan… Lachlan was changing.
I lit a cigarette. Old habit. One of the few I hadn't bothered to break.
Through the sliding glass door behind me, I could see him—barefoot on the hardwood floor, hands taped, moving slow through shadowboxing drills. Focused. Clean form. No wasted motion.
He didn't know I was watching. That was the best way to see him.
Ria sat cross-legged on the couch, watching too, but with a different gaze. One I hadn't seen pointed at one of my fighters before. That quiet, worried kind of love that didn't try to change a man, just hoped he wouldn't disappear.
Lachlan's punches cracked through the silence. No music, no distractions. Just breath and motion. I watched the way he exhaled on every strike, like he was exorcising something dark with every hit.
He was sharper now. Not just in skill—but in presence. He'd learned how to carry himself in the space between violence and stillness. The boy I started training was gone. This was a man—leaner, quieter, and with a deeper weight behind his eyes.
And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't proud of him.
I flicked ash off the edge of the porch and said loud enough to carry through the door, "You're gonna wear a trench in that floor, kid."
Lachlan paused mid-pivot, then glanced over. He smirked—barely. Just enough for me to see he knew I was joking.
Ria got up and opened the door, stepping out beside me. She was barefoot too, hoodie drawn over her hands.
"He hasn't stopped since five," she said, voice soft.
"He'll burn out if he keeps that up," I muttered. "Fight's in three days. Body needs fuel and rest."
"He listens to you more than he lets on."
"Sure," I said. "But he listens to you different."
She smiled, faintly. Tiredly. I could tell this trip was weighing on her too—not just the travel, but what it meant. The spotlight was growing. Bigger arenas, bigger stakes, and with that came bigger risks.
She looked back at him, the way someone looks at a fire they're not sure is gonna warm them or burn the place down.
"I just don't want to see him fall apart again."
"He won't," I said. "He's past that."
"You sure?"
"As sure as I can be. Which is to say… not very. But here's the thing—he's got something now that most fighters don't. He's got an anchor."
She didn't answer. Just looked down at her hands, thumbs picking at her sleeves.
I took another drag, slow.
"He's gonna be okay," I said again, not sure if I was reassuring her or myself.
Inside, Lachlan stopped. Took a breath. His chest was heaving, but not from exhaustion. From focus. From restraint.
He walked to the kitchen, pulled open the fridge, and drank straight from a water bottle like he hadn't just spent an hour beating ghosts out of the air.
Then he looked out at us. Met my eyes.
"You get a good look, old man?"
"Always," I said. "Just making sure you don't forget who built those hands."
He gave a ghost of a grin, then turned to Ria.
"You eat yet?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No."
"Get dressed. We'll go find something."
She raised an eyebrow. "You sure? I thought you didn't like going out before fights."
"I didn't," he said. "But this one's different."
That stopped me. I stepped back inside, watching him as he pulled his hoodie over his head.
"How different?"
He looked at me, and this time, I saw it. The difference. It wasn't just discipline. It wasn't fear, either.
It was purpose.
"I'm not just here to win anymore," he said. "I'm here to prove I belong."
Then he turned to Ria.
"And I want you in the front row."
She nodded slowly, trying not to let the emotion show on her face. But I saw it. Hell, I felt it.
We'd come a long way from that dusty gym in Detroit. And now, three days out from the biggest fight of his life, I wasn't looking at a kid with a chip on his shoulder.
I was looking at a fighter who knew exactly who he was—and what he stood to lose.
And maybe, just maybe, that's what made him dangerous in all the right ways.
Lachlan
The air felt different here.
Back home, it was cold, heavy—carried grit and grime from the city like it was sewn into the wind. Here, it was light. Soft. Almost too soft. Like if you breathed too deep it'd slip through your lungs without touching anything real.
But I didn't mind. I'd take the quiet where I could get it.
Ria sat across from me at a café just off the boardwalk. Her iced coffee sat untouched, the straw already sinking like it had given up. She kept glancing over her shoulder, not out of nerves, just habit. Same way I kept checking the corners of the room. The gym put it in us. A kind of constant awareness, like living meant never letting your guard down all the way.
I took another bite of my breakfast wrap—eggs, turkey, avocado, something green I didn't trust—and chewed in silence. Every so often, she'd catch me looking at her and roll her eyes in that way she always did when she knew I wasn't going to say whatever was on my mind.
But this time, I said it.
"You think I'm ready?"
She blinked. "For what?"
"The fight. All of it."
She leaned back, crossed her arms. "If you weren't, you wouldn't be here."
I nodded. Not because I agreed—because I wanted to.
The truth was, everything felt too clear. Too calm.
I didn't feel that gnawing hunger I usually did before a fight. No darkness pressing behind my eyes. No fire licking at my ribs, daring me to burn someone with it.
I felt… focused.
And that scared me more than the rage ever had.
Because now, I had something to lose.
The silence between us settled, comfortable. Until her phone buzzed. She checked it and frowned.
"Chiron wants to meet at the gym in an hour. Go over tape one more time."
I smirked. "He's not gonna find anything new."
"Doesn't matter. He'll look anyway. It's his way of telling you he gives a shit."
I finished the last of my wrap and stood, stretching out my shoulder. The one The Prophet had tried to tear out of its socket.
Still a little stiff.
But I was used to things not healing right.
We walked back along the pier, side by side. Her hand brushed mine once, then again. The third time, I caught it. Held it. No gloves. No tape. Just skin.
It didn't feel soft. It felt strong.
She looked over, surprised, but didn't say anything. Just smiled.
When we got to the gym, Chiron was already there—head down, tablet in hand, looping footage of my opponent like it was gospel.
I changed fast, wrapped up slow. Every motion deliberate. Every knot of gauze tight enough to feel like armor.
Chiron looked up as I stepped into the ring.
"Let's see if all this California sunshine made you soft."
I cracked my neck.
"Not a chance."
He nodded toward the bag man. "Work combinations. Real time. Then we move to counters. I want clean breaks, no drifting."
"Yes, coach."
The next forty minutes passed in sweat and rhythm. Chiron didn't say much, but he didn't need to. He was watching the way he always did—closer than anyone else ever had. Not just the strikes. The pauses. The hesitation before a switch stance. The drop in my left shoulder before a kick.
I could feel Ria watching from the corner, but I didn't look. Couldn't. Not while I was trying to keep my head in the fight.
But her presence anchored me. Kept me from drifting into the red.
When I finished, shirt soaked, hands trembling with lactic fire, Chiron stepped up into the ring.
He didn't say anything for a while. Just looked at me.
"You're ready," he finally said.
"Yeah?"
He nodded once. "You're not fighting to prove something anymore. You're fighting to protect what you've got. That's different."
"I don't know if that makes me better or weaker."
"Neither," he said. "It just makes you real."
I sat on the edge of the ring, pulling at the tape around my wrists.
Ria stepped up, handed me a bottle of water.
I drank, then looked at her. "After this... I don't want to go back to how it was."
"You won't," she said.
"How can you be sure?"
"Because you're not who you were. And I'm not letting you forget it."
Her voice was steady. Like a promise.
And for the first time since stepping off the plane in California, I let myself believe it.
Three days left.
Then everything changes.
Or it doesn't.
But I'd be walking into that cage more than just a fighter.
I'd be walking in as a man who finally knew what he was fighting for.
And that… that made all the difference