Paul Santiago
7:20 PM
It's been six years. Six whole years since I last saw that little rascal. "Little"? I chuckle to myself. He wouldn't be little anymore. If I'm doing the math right, he'd be 22 by now—ripe for marriage even. The thought of it makes me smile. And here I am, well past the "ripe" stage myself.
"What's got you smiling like that?" A familiar voice teases from behind.
I turn around, and there he is—the so-called little rascal, standing tall and bold. Oh, how times have changed.
"Well, I'll be damned," I breathe out, taking in his height. "Look at you! You're what, 5'11?"
"6'2," he corrects, a grin on his face.
We stand there, just staring at each other for a few moments, and in those few moments, memories from the past flood back—like it was only yesterday we first fought in the ring. We met at The Gym, an underground club training fighters: boxers like myself, and martial artists—judo, Muay Thai fighters—like him. I was a lost cause back then, no past, no future. I had been in darkness my entire life, but he became the light I never thought I needed. A son I hadn't asked for, and yet one I couldn't have done without.
And now, seeing him after all these years, after both of us went chasing our dreams, I realize something: he saved me. He gave me a second chance at life, and he doesn't even know it.
"Yeah," I say, subtly wiping away a stray tear with the back of my hand. "Come on, buddy, let's get some grub."
I pat him on the back and lead him into the mall.
As we navigate through the mall, looking for a nice restaurant, I can't help but laugh when we bump into a lady, sending her things scattering to the ground. Oh, great.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I apologize quickly, kneeling down to help pick up her belongings.
"Are you okay, miss?" Khalan asks, bending down beside me.
The woman looks a bit flustered but smiles. "Oh, it's alright, really," she says, catching her breath.
She gathers her things and turns to leave. Figuring she might know the area, I ask, "Sorry to bother you, but do you know where the restaurants are around here?"
She kindly gives us directions, and we part ways with a quick "thank you."
---
After we settle down to eat, Khalan is mid-story, laughing as he goes on about my encounter with The Drew Anderson, one of the world's top MMA fighters.
"No way!" he exclaims. "So you're telling me you were in the same room as The Drew Anderson?"
"Yes, but he's actually not as tall as he looks on TV. Rumor has it he's 5'9, not 6 foot."
Khalan laughs, clearly happy that he's taller than one of his idols.
I try to join in, but I can't shake the feeling gnawing at me. I didn't just come here to catch up. I came here to tell him something important—that I'm quitting boxing for good.
I practiced at home, running through what I'd say, trying to brace myself for how he might react. Disappointment? Anger? Pain? The thought of losing him makes me sick. Or maybe… maybe he'll understand, a small voice tries to reassure me.
He's still talking about his excitement for his upcoming fight when I interrupt him.
"Hey, Khalan?"
"Yeah?"
I pause, my throat tightening. What do I say?
Come on, Paul, say something, I tell myself. He notices my silence and stops chewing, a worried look crossing his face.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"I just... I can't keep—"
BANG!
A loud bang echoes from across the restaurant. I don't know whether to be relieved for the interruption or worried.
"What was that?" Khalan asks, already standing.
"Stay here," I say, moving toward the door. Another bang echoes, then another, followed by an eerie silence. My heart sinks.
"Khalan, we need to—"
Bang!
"Was that a—?"
I never heard the rest. The next sound was so loud, so raw, it shattered everything. My ears rang, my vision blurred, and for a terrifying moment I was deaf and blind.
The store across from us exploded inward. Not from a bomb. Not from a car. From… something.
Something fast. Too fast. I couldn't even register its shape. My brain scrambled to define it—was it a vehicle? Some kind of carrier? An animal?
No—worse.
I looked closer and from the ruins emerged the most horrific things I've ever seen. They look deformed, like something twisted and unnatural. Their arms are long and gangly, heads shaped like mailboxes but warped, grotesque. And they're fast—terrifyingly fast.
I turn to Khalan, shouting, "GET DOWN!"
BANG!
People around me dropped to the floor, ducking, screaming into their hands, whispering prayers into the linoleum. Someone sobbed. Someone else threw up. My own breath was caught somewhere in my chest, refusing to come out.
It felt like a dream—no, a nightmare I couldn't wake from.
I turned, frantically scanning the chaos for Khalan, but before I could even say his name—
BOOM.
The second one crashed directly into the store we were in.
Glass rained down like needles. Shelves crumpled like paper. My scream never made it out.