Lachlan
Grand Rapids wasn't what I expected.
Maybe I thought it would be more industrial. Cold. Another city built out of brick and boredom. But instead, it had trees—actual ones—and little shops that looked like they hadn't been swallowed by chains yet. The air smelled like coffee and early spring with a hint of sewage. I didn't know if I liked it, but it didn't feel like a place trying to choke me. That was something.
Ria walked ahead of me and Chiron, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her coat, eyes flicking between murals on buildings and the canal that cut through the heart of the city. I'd never seen her this curious. Quiet, yeah—but not quite like she was afraid. Quiet like she was taking it all in. Like she wanted to memorize everything.
I didn't know what I looked like behind her, but I felt heavier than usual. Fight weight was down, yeah, but everything else inside me buzzed like a live wire.
"You look like you're casing the place," Chiron muttered beside me, voice low so only I could hear.
I glanced over. "Just walking."
He snorted. "Yeah. Sure. Keep lying to yourself."
Ria slowed near a sculpture—some massive twisted metal thing that looked like a bird if you tilted your head—and waited for us to catch up. When I did, she looked up at me, her mouth already turned in a small smile.
"It's weird," she said. "But kind of amazing, right?"
I shrugged. "Sure. I guess."
She nudged me with her elbow, not hard. "You don't have to pretend you don't like it."
"I'm not pretending," I said, then added, "It's just not what I'm here for."
That dimmed her smile a little. Not all the way. Just enough for me to hate how the words sat between us.
Chiron cut in then, thank God. "Let her enjoy it, Lach. You've got twenty-four hours 'til the fight. Nothing you do right now's gonna change the outcome except maybe breathing deeper."
I didn't respond. He was right, though. As usual.
We kept walking. Downtown wasn't big, but it was dense—full of color and history that looked like someone actually gave a damn about keeping it alive. We passed a record store that had band posters taped inside the windows and a bakery with open doors letting out warm, sweet air. I felt out of place but not unwelcome.
At some point, we stopped at a bridge over the Grand River. The water moved slow beneath us, grey and cold-looking. Ria leaned against the rail, her hair catching in the breeze.
I stepped beside her, rested my arms on the metal. "You like it here?" I asked, quieter than before.
She nodded. "It feels… still. Like the kind of place people come to start over."
I looked at her. "You thinking about starting over?"
"Not without you," she said. Simple. No hesitation.
That made my chest go tight again—the good kind and the bad kind, tangled up. I didn't know how to carry that kind of answer. Not yet. So I reached for her hand instead. She let me. Her fingers slid between mine like they belonged there.
Chiron cleared his throat behind us. "You two done making goo-goo eyes, or do I need to call a chaperone?"
Ria laughed. I didn't. But I didn't glare at him either.
We headed back toward the hotel not long after. My knuckles itched the whole way—not from nerves, but from want. I wanted the cage. Wanted the noise and the silence that came after.
20 Monroe looked different from the inside. Bigger. Darker. The kind of space that swallowed crowds and spat out winners and losers. Tomorrow, I'd bleed in that ring. Win or lose, I'd leave something on the canvas.
But tonight, I was here. With her. And him.
And for the first time before a fight, I didn't feel like I had to carry all of it alone.
Lachlan – Grand Rapids, Michigan – Fight Night
The 'locker room' at 20 Monroe smelled like bleach and blood.
It was quiet—too quiet. Just the soft squeak of my soles on the floor and the occasional creak of pipes behind the cinderblock walls. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed like it was pissed to be awake. Ria was out in the crowd. Chiron was ten feet away, pacing like a storm with nowhere to go. And I was sitting on a folding chair with my head down, knuckles wrapped tight, hoodie still on, sweat already beginning to bloom at the back of my neck.
My name was on the bout sheet now. Third fight from the top. Main card. People in the crowd knew it too. Not a ton, but enough. Whispers. Nods. "That's him," I'd heard one guy say when we walked in through the back. "The kid from Detroit who broke that guy's orbital in two rounds."
They didn't know me. Not really. But they wanted to.
Chiron crouched in front of me and tapped my thigh once to bring me back.
"You listenin'?"
I nodded.
"You get in there and it's noise—just noise, right? The lights, the crowd, whatever that asshole says to try and get in your head before the bell. Don't give it real estate."
"Got it."
"You've got better hands, better movement. He's gonna come out wild, try and press early. You give him space to burn himself out. Then you drown him."
I looked up at him. He held my stare for a long beat, then stood again, gruff as ever.
"Make him remember your name."
I stood, rolled my neck. My body was warm, loose, buzzing just under the skin. I wasn't nervous. Not really. I didn't get nervous anymore. Not before fights. That part of me broke a long time ago.
But I was hungry.
They called my name.
The hallway to the cage was narrow and dark, lined with exposed pipe and old posters curling at the corners. As I walked through it, I heard the crowd above—drunk, hyped, loud. The kind of noise that gets into your bones if you let it.
I didn't.
The lights hit me the second I stepped into the venue. Everything was harder, sharper out here. The cage was lit like a stage—top-down, cold white. My opponent was already inside, pacing like a dog that hadn't been walked in weeks.
Diego Mendez.
I knew the name. Everyone in the Midwest circuit did. Brawler. Slick elbows. Had this bad habit of taunting guys who went down too early—like he wanted you to get back up just so he could hit you again. He was taller than me, leaner, and all twitch. I watched him flick his shoulders loose and smile when he saw me coming. Big, toothy, all teeth and arrogance.
Didn't matter.
The second the cage door slammed shut behind me, it was just him and me.
And the dark.
First round, I felt him out. Stayed light on my feet, let him swing.
He came out like Chiron said he would—fast, sloppy power, testing my guard. His fists were bricks, but wide. Lazy on the retraction. I let him miss just enough to think he was close.
Then I tagged him.
Right hook. Short and mean. The kind of punch that doesn't break skin but buries deep.
He grinned when I hit him.
"Oh, you can hit," he said.
I didn't answer.
The ref barked at us to work. Diego threw a spinning elbow that grazed my temple, and I ducked under the follow-up knee to clinch. He tried to twist out, but I turned him into the cage, ribs pressed to steel, and drove my shoulder into his gut.
He grunted—sharp and surprised.
"Not just pretty, huh?" he muttered in my ear.
Still didn't answer.
Let my hands do the talking.
Two short hooks to the body. A knee. Another. He twisted out finally, shoved me off. We circled again, blood high in both of us now.
I could feel Ria watching, even though I couldn't see her. Could feel the heat of her gaze—steady, like an anchor. Like a weight I wanted to carry.
End of round one, I walked back to my corner and spit into the bucket.
Chiron handed me water.
"You've got him breathing heavier already," he said. "Keep chipping. Don't chase the finish. It'll come."
I nodded. Swigged. Breathed through my nose.
Round two.
Diego came slower, a little more careful now. Still cocky, but that edge of invincibility had cracked. I could see it in his eyes.
So I pressed.
I feinted a jab, dropped levels, and took a leg. Drove through, got him on his back. Crowd popped. He squirmed, trying to post out, but I rode him hard—hips down, hand on his throat, kept him guessing.
I didn't want to end it quick.
I wanted him to feel it.
This wasn't about glory. This was about me.
Every second on the ground, I made him earn air. When he twisted, I dropped elbows—clean, slicing. One caught him under the eye and opened him up.
He spat blood, hissed through his teeth. "You fight like a fucking ghost."
I didn't stop.
The ref hovered, watching close, but I didn't go wild. Just controlled punishment. Dismantling.
When the bell rang, I stood smooth, blood on my forearms. Diego rolled to his knees, wiping red from his face, eyes full of hate and fear in equal measure.
I looked down at him, breathing slow.
He looked up.
And I saw it.
He knew he wasn't winning.
Round three didn't last a minute.
He came desperate, sloppy. I let him swing wide, ducked under, countered hard with a right cross that snapped his head around like a twist-top bottle.
He staggered.
I moved in, four-punch combo. Left, right, liver shot, then uppercut.
He dropped.
Not dramatic. Not Hollywood. Just knees buckling and body folding like his strings got cut.
Ref dove in.
Crowd exploded.
I didn't celebrate.
Just stood over him, chest heaving, blood drying on my skin, and turned to the side of the cage.
Ria was there.
Hands clutched to her chest, tears in her eyes—not from fear, but from something else.
Pride.
Belief.
Something I didn't know how to hold. Not yet.
But I wanted to.
Chiron opened the gate. Clapped my shoulder hard.
"That's how you make noise," he said.
I didn't smile.
But for the first time since I could remember, I felt clean.
Like something inside me had clicked back into place.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I had to fight myself just to breathe.
The shower water ran red.
Not all mine. Diego's blood had soaked into the wraps, smeared across my ribs, my jaw, even down the backs of my knuckles. My knuckles looked worse than they felt—scraped raw, but not broken. Skin split in the middle of my right fist, little tooth of bone almost peeking through. Chiron would tape it, maybe stitch it.
Didn't matter.
Pain was real. But pain was clean. Straightforward.
The kind of pain I could understand.
I shut off the water and dried in silence. The noise of the crowd was still ringing in my ears, like the fight hadn't really ended. Just transformed into a different kind of violence—people pushing to the front, betting slips in the air, hot dogs in hand, already forgetting the names of the men who bled for them.
I pulled on my hoodie, slid the zipper halfway up, and looked at myself in the mirror above the row of sinks.
Face swollen. One eye puffing. Jaw tight.
But in the glass, I didn't flinch.
There was someone looking back at me who wasn't afraid anymore.
"Come on," Chiron said from behind me. "She's waiting."
The hallway outside the locker room smelled like popcorn, spilled beer, and something cheaper—blood and old concrete and sweat. Ria was waiting by the loading dock, wrapped in that big army-green jacket she always wore. Her eyes were wide when she saw me. Red around the edges.
But she didn't cry.
She came right up to me and put her hand on my face like I was breakable. Like she didn't care who saw.
"You okay?" she asked, voice low.
I nodded.
"You don't look okay."
I gave a small shrug. "He looks worse."
That pulled a breath out of her. Almost a laugh, almost a sob. She wrapped her arms around my waist and pressed her face into my chest. I winced. Broken ribs maybe. Or just bruised bad.
Didn't matter.
I let her hold me.
"Everyone was screaming," she whispered. "I couldn't hear anything. I couldn't tell if you were still breathing."
I didn't say anything. Just held her tighter.
Chiron gave us space, lighting a cigarette near the van and making a show of looking the other way. He didn't believe in romance. Said it got men killed.
But I'd already been dead once.
This was something else.
"Let's get out of here," I said into her hair.
She nodded.
The ride back was quiet. The city lights moved past the windows in long streaks. Chiron drove like he always did—aggressively, like every stop sign was a suggestion and every yellow light was a challenge. Ria held my hand in the backseat, her fingers brushing the edge of my bruised knuckles.
The adrenaline was gone now, replaced with a deep, simmering ache. My head throbbed. My ribs screamed when I shifted. I could taste blood in the back of my throat, metallic and sour.
But I was alive.
And more than that—I had won.
Not just the fight.
Something else.
A piece of me I thought was gone had clawed its way back to the surface. I didn't know what to do with that yet.
But I knew who I wanted to hold onto while I figured it out.
Back at the motel, Chiron gave me a nod and tossed me a bottle of pills.
"Sleep," he said. "You're gonna need it. Word's gonna spread. Next fight's gonna be bigger."
He didn't say harder, but I heard it anyway.
The door shut behind him.
Ria pulled me down onto the edge of the bed, helped me peel off my hoodie, saw the bruising already blooming across my chest and back.
"I'm gonna kill that bastard with a brick," she muttered, touching a fingertip to one particularly dark spot.
I smiled.
"I've taken worse."
"That's not comforting."
We sat in silence for a while. She turned on the lamp. Soft yellow light filled the room. My hand found hers without thinking.
"You scared me," she said finally.
"I scare myself sometimes," I admitted.
She looked at me, eyes shining.
"But you keep doing it anyway."
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Why?"
I turned to her. Met her gaze.
"Because I'm not done yet."
The room went quiet again. Outside, some guy yelled from the parking lot. Tires screeched somewhere in the distance. Michigan at midnight.
But inside, in that little bubble of light and quiet, we were still.
And for once, I didn't feel like I was running.
For once, I didn't feel angry at being alive.