Lachlan
Tennessee, two weeks later.
The gym in Nashville didn't smell like home. Too clean. Too polished. The kind of place with LED lights and branded towels, not the kind where blood soaked into the mats and stayed there like a haunting. But I made it work. I always did.
Chiron had told me three days ago—next fight, Tennessee. Top-tier venue, full crowd, primetime slot. Big name opponent. Bigger than Grand Rapids, bigger than the 'Prophet'. The kind of fight that makes or breaks a run. The kind that draws scouts. Sponsors. That stupid, impossible word: legacy.
I should've been wired. Should've been chewing lightning and spitting nails.
But I wasn't.
I was calm.
Focused.
Not the kind of calm that comes before a storm, but the kind that settles in after you stop running from it.
And the weirdest part? It wasn't just the fight that sharpened me.
It was her.
Ria.
She kept slipping into my thoughts—not like a distraction, but like a compass. Like a center of gravity I hadn't realized I needed until she was there. A week ago, she kissed me under streetlights and told me she wasn't going anywhere. And for the first time in a long time, I believed someone when they said that.
Now, between drills, when my shoulders burned and my lungs felt like razors, I'd catch myself thinking about her laugh. The way she'd said I smelled like tiger balm and regret. The way her hand fit against my chest when she leaned in—like she was grounding me, not just touching me.
It didn't make me soft.
It made me clear.
Like the noise in my head had finally dialed down to something I could live with.
I was in the ring, barefoot on the canvas, sweat slick on my back. Chiron barked a command and I flowed into it—southpaw shift, high feint, rear elbow, pivot, reset. He nodded once, quiet approval.
"You're sharper," he said after a round. "Cleaner."
"Feel cleaner," I replied.
He squinted at me, suspicious. "You sleeping?"
"Some."
"You eating?"
"Trying."
"You seeing someone?"
I glanced at him, surprised. Chiron didn't ask personal questions unless he already knew the answer.
I just shrugged. "Yeah."
He gave a grunt, like that made sense. "Good. Keep her close. But don't let her be the only thing keeping you standing."
I didn't say anything, but the words lodged deep. Because I knew what he meant.
You build your foundation out of someone else, and the second they leave—or break—you collapse.
But that wasn't what this felt like.
It didn't feel like I needed her to stand.
It felt like I finally wanted to.
Later, I sat alone on the back steps of the gym, unwrapping my hands. The Nashville night was warm, humid. Street Lights flickered against wet pavement. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked, sharp and restless.
I pulled out my phone.
No missed calls. No new messages.
But I scrolled to hers anyway.
I didn't text. Didn't call. Just hovered over her name like some stupid kid.
Then, finally, I typed:
[You'd hate it here. Everything smells like lavender hand sanitizer.]
A few seconds passed. Then my screen lit up.
[Sounds like my nightmare. You surviving?]
I smirked.
[Barely. I miss the sound of you fidgeting in the background. Keeps the demons quiet.]
Another pause.
[You'll make it back. And when you do, I want dinner again. But this time, you're cooking.]
I blinked.
[I fight people for a living, Ria. That's less dangerous than me with a stove. Guess I'm willing to risk it.]
I stared at the screen for a long time before locking it and slipping it back into my bag.
There was a weight in my chest, but not the usual kind. Not dread. Not fury. Something else. Something I didn't have a name for yet.
Fight week crept closer.
I could feel the shift in my body—the slow coil of anticipation tightening behind my ribs. Every fighter knows it. The awareness. The tension. Like your blood knows what's coming before your mind does.
But this time, I wasn't scared of losing control.
I wasn't scared of liking the violence.
Because now, I knew what waited for me when I walked back out of that cage.
Not a cold locker room. Not silence. Not shame.
Ria.
Her voice. Her laugh. Her eyes.
Not to save me.
But to remind me there's something outside the fight that's still worth feeling human for.
I'm not a good man.
But I'm trying.
Fight Night
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Lights Out: Nashville! Tonight, in our main event, we have a welterweight war for the ages—five rounds, under unified rules, inside the steel that separates the ordinary from the legendary!"
The crowd roared, their voices a sea of thunder rolling through the stadium.
"In the red corner! Standing six feet tall, weighing in at one hundred and forty five pounds, with a professional record of 14 wins, 3 losses—he hails from Memphis, Tennessee! Known for his knockout power and granite chin—'The Outlaw' Jace Merrin!"
The local crowd erupted. Merrin stepped into the spotlight, arms high, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Sharp, stocky build. Scar tissue over one brow. Big smile, too many teeth. He soaked in the cheers like fuel.
I stayed in the tunnel. Hood up. Gloves loose at my sides. The world had narrowed to a pinpoint, and I was on the other side of it.
Chiron leaned in close.
"You know what to do. Eyes on the breath. Shoulders down. Stay inside yourself until the second bell rings."
I nodded once. My jaw clicked again. Didn't matter. I wasn't hungry for food anymore.
I was ready.
The announcer's voice boomed again.
"And in the blue corner! Standing six feet even, weighing in at one hundred and forty pounds. With a record of 4 wins, 0 losses—fighting out of Chiron's Gym in Detroit, Michigan—'The Ghost' Lachlan Smith!"
A hush. Then a wave. Not as loud as Merrin's welcome, but different. Like they didn't know what to expect.
I stepped into the lights.
The cage always looked smaller when you walked toward it. Like the world got reduced to just this—steel, blood, bone. The place where everything strips down to truth.
My heart wasn't racing.
It was steady.
Not because I wasn't afraid.
Because I knew the fear. Had sat with it. Lived with it.
Owned it.
I stepped into the cage, touched the center, then backed into my corner. Chiron reached through the fence, adjusted the tape on my wrist. Locked eyes with me.
"You're not here to survive," he said. "You're here to finish."
I nodded once.
Then I glanced toward the camera.
They panned across my face, searching for something dramatic.
I gave them nothing.
Except maybe the thought of her.
Ria's voice from the night before:
"You don't have to be anything but yourself in there. That's enough."
The referee stepped into the center.
"Fighters to the middle."
I met Merrin eye to eye. He smirked. Tried to size me up with that cocky swagger fighters wore when they wanted you to think they didn't feel the pressure.
His breath was shallow.
Mine was full.
"You ready?" the ref asked.
I didn't blink.
"Let's fight!"
The bell rang.
Round One.
We moved.
Merrin came out heavy on the lead foot, trying to pressure early, walk me down. I let him. Circled right. Watched his hands more than his feet—he threw power off both sides, but the left hook was his bread and butter.
I felt loose. Aware. Every step, every twitch, like a slow-motion film playing just for me.
He threw first. Jab. Cross. Head kick.
I blocked, rolled, slipped outside the kick and answered with a calf shot that made his leg buckle slightly.
I heard Chiron yell, "There it is!"
Merrin grinned, nodded like he liked it.
Good.
I wanted him comfortable.
So I could drag him somewhere uncomfortable.
We traded through the first round, but I was scoring more. Precision. Patience. Elbows in the clinch. Liver shots when he dipped.
By the time the horn rang, his smile was thinner.
I walked back to my corner without looking at the crowd.
Chiron handed me water, wiped my brow.
"You're making him reach. Make him pay for it. Second round—pick up the pace."
I didn't need to say anything.
I just looked down at my gloves.
The skin hadn't broken open this time.
Not yet.
Round Two started faster.
Merrin came in with intent—uppercut into a clinch, tried to dirty box. He was stronger in the clinch than I expected, but not cleaner.
I caught him with a short elbow in the break and saw the cut open immediately over his right eye.
Blood.
It didn't make me feel anything.
Not rage. Not satisfaction.
Just clarity.
I stayed technical. Clean shots. Patient. When he lunged, I punished him. When he circled, I cut off the cage.
Midway through the round, he clipped me—short right that caught the temple.
I stumbled.
The crowd surged.
But I reset.
Didn't panic. Didn't brawl.
I smiled at him. Just once.
And he hesitated.
That was the crack.
I stepped in, clinched, dumped him against the cage. Ripped a knee into his ribs that made him wheeze.
Then the bell.
He walked back slower.
I stayed standing between rounds.
Didn't need the stool.
Didn't want it.
Round Three.
It ended there.
I feinted left, drew his cross. Slipped under. Landed a shovel hook to the liver that folded him.
He dropped to one knee.
I could've ended it with a flurry.
But I stepped back.
He couldn't stand.
Technical knockout.
Crowd exploded.
I didn't raise my arms.
I just exhaled.
Felt the silence under the noise.
The calm.
I wasn't trembling. I wasn't lost.
Chiron grabbed me through the fence and pulled me in for a brief nod of pride. No speech. Just that look.
The same one Ria gave me when she told me I was still something good.
I looked into the nearest camera, sweat dripping off my brow, and mouthed one word.
"Soon."
For her.
For home.
For whatever came next.