Ria
Fight Night — San Diego, California
The stadium reeked of sweat, beer, and blood that hadn't even been spilled yet.
It was packed shoulder to shoulder, the crowd a single pulsing organism, all anticipation and aggression. The air vibrated with music, with screams, with the smell of adrenaline and metal and electricity. Everything was lit up and loud and raw—too bright, too much—but I forced myself to stay grounded.
I wasn't in the cage. He was.
And I was going to watch every second of it.
Lachlan stood in the prep hallway, silent, hood up, fists clenched and already taped. Chiron stood behind him, saying nothing, because he didn't need to. Lachlan wasn't one of those guys who needed hype. He didn't need someone shouting in his face or pounding his chest. That fire was already in him, quiet and deep. He was coiled steel—focused, cold, inhumanly still.
Except for his eyes.
When he glanced back at me, just once, they flickered.
Not doubt. Not fear.
Just… something human.
That was enough.
The announcer's voice echoed through the arena like a war cry.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the main event of the evening! Five rounds in the welterweight division! Introducing first... fighting out of the red corner, with a professional record of twelve wins and one loss… the ruthless, the relentless, the undefeated Boris Knyazev!"
The Russian stepped into the cage with his arms raised, all brute muscle and jagged scar tissue. His eyes were pits of ice, mouth curled into a sneer. I'd watched the tape. He didn't fight to win—he fought to maim. Knees to the kidneys. Rips to the ear. Elbows like meat cleavers. And he loved it.
He stared out at the crowd like he wanted to hurt everyone in it.
Then came Lachlan's call.
"And his opponent… fighting out of the blue corner. With a professional record of fourteen wins and one loss… hailing from Detroit, Michigan… The Ghost, Lachlan Smith!"
The crowd roared.
But Lachlan didn't raise his arms. Didn't play to them.
He walked out like he was going to war.
No swagger. No bullshit. Just death in motion.
He stepped into the cage like it belonged to him.
The ref said something—I didn't hear it. Didn't matter. Lachlan was already locked in. Staring down Knyazev like a man staring at his own shadow. Calm. Controlled.
The bell rang.
And the storm hit.
They clashed in the center with a sound like a car crash. The first exchange was brutal—Lachlan's jab finding the Russian's nose, Knyazev answering with a leg kick so sharp I felt it in my bones. Flesh slapped against flesh. Grunts. Breath. Blood.
Thirty seconds in, and there was already a cut over Lachlan's right eyebrow.
Didn't stop him.
He pivoted, body low, slipped under a right hook and buried an elbow in Knyazev's ribs. The Russian snarled and answered with a wild knee to the chest, but Lachlan rolled with it—countered with a short hook that split Knyazev's cheek wide open.
Blood sprayed. The crowd screamed.
Round one ended in a blur of grappling and teeth-gritted clinches, both men slick with sweat and open wounds. When Lachlan got back to the corner, I was already by the cage, pressing a towel through the fence.
He didn't look at me. Didn't need to.
But his hand brushed the towel a second longer than it needed to.
Chiron worked the cut, his voice low and calm. "He's slower than you. Don't brawl. Pick him apart."
Round two started. The pace changed.
Lachlan circled. Footwork tight. He was breathing clean. Sharp. Knyazev came forward, arms swinging wide, trying to turn the cage into a grinder.
But Lachlan wasn't there to dance. He was there to dismantle.
Left hook. Teep kick. Parry. Elbow. Step out.
Again.
And again.
Blood pooled under their feet.
Then it happened.
A slip. Half a second. Lachlan's back foot caught slick canvas. Knyazev seized it—rushed him, slammed him into the cage with a sickening crunch of shoulder and steel. Raining hammerfists. Lachlan covered up, took two to the ear, one to the temple. Blood now pouring from his brow. His mouthguard flew halfway across the mat from a brutal uppercut.
I stood. Couldn't sit. Couldn't breathe.
Then—he reversed.
Just like that. Like a goddamn revenant.
He twisted under, latched onto Knyazev's leg, and lifted. Slammed the Russian into the mat so hard the whole cage shook. The crowd lost it.
He mounted. Rained elbows. No wasted motion. No rage. Just cold, surgical violence.
Knyazev bucked—but Lachlan didn't budge. He drove another elbow into the cut on his opponent's cheek, opening it further. A curtain of red spilled down Knyazev's neck. One eye shut. Lachlan switched position. Choked. Punched. Waited. Punched again.
Then the Russian's body went slack.
The ref dove in, waving his arms.
It was over.
Lachlan stayed kneeling for a second too long.
Then he stood. Covered in blood. Most of it not his.
He didn't scream. Didn't throw his arms up.
He just looked over the cage—at me.
And for a second, I didn't see the fighter. I didn't see a Ghost.
I saw the man who'd told me in Detroit he didn't want to be this all the time.
And I saw how hard he was trying.
I ran to the cage.
He walked to the fence, hands shaking now, the adrenaline seeping out. Chiron was already talking to the ref. The announcer was roaring something about knockouts and legends and carnage.
But Lachlan only looked at me.
I smiled. Reached for him through the cage.
He pressed his forehead to the fence. Blood still dripping down his temple.
"I'm still here," he whispered.
And I believed him.