I had won.
After growling years—I mean grueling, bitter, soul-wrecking years, I did it.
The championship was mine.
My opponent lay sprawled across the mat, gasping for air, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. The crowd's roar sounded distant, like I was underwater. My heartbeat slammed against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
The referee knelt, counted, and waved the match off. My arm was hoisted into the air shaking, heavy, but undeniably triumphant. A flash of cameras lit up my bruised face. I was drenched in sweat, blood smeared across my chest, one eye swollen shut—but I grinned.
Nothing could stop me from smiling now.
Or so I thought.
"YOU'RE NOT GETTING A CENT!"
The voice carved through the chaos like a blade. I didn't need to look to know it was Marcus, the so called manager who'd clung to me like a leech since the amateurs.
He stormed into the locker room before I could even sit down. Still wrapped in bloody gauze, I leaned against the bench, ignoring the stabbing in my ribs.
Marcus slammed his clipboard down on the table.
"You were supposed to throw," he hissed. "We had money riding on Fargas. Double if he won in round seven. You had one job."
I stood tall, despite my knees screaming otherwise. "I told you already. I don't throw fights. I won't ever back down from one."
Marcus's mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a snarl. "Then you just cost me fifty grand, and yourself everything."
He turned and walked out. Just like that. No celebration. No payout.
I looked around the locker room, my locker room for the last eight years. The walls were cracked tile, the bench wobbled, and the floor smelled like blood and bleach. But it was mine.
And now it was all I had left.
The next morning, I truly found out how deep the betrayal went.
My cut of the fight was frozen, no suprise. The promoter said I'd breached my contract something about "failure to follow pre fight directives." Marcus had poisoned every well in the city. My endorsements even dropped me. My apartment was locked. My phone just dead.
I went back to the only place I knew and had access to. Titan's Gym.
It was early. 5 a.m. That bitter hour when the lights buzz like they resent being on and the cold seeps through the cinderblock walls.
I let myself in with the old key still on my lanyard. The ring was dark, but the air was thick with old sweat and older memories. I walked past the racks of gloves, past the posters that were now sun-bleached and peeling.
I touched the heavy bag—my initials still carved into the leather where I cut it accidentally six years ago. Every bruise, every callus, every drop of blood I ever gave... all soaked into this place.
"Back already?" a voice called out from the dark.
Coach Murdoch.
He was standing near the speed bag station, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed.
"Thought you'd be halfway to Vegas by now. Big man with a belt and all."
"No flights booked," I said, trying to smile. "Turns out honor doesn't pay for airfare."
Murdoch walked closer, looking me over. "Marcus pulled the rug?"
"Set it on fire," I said. "Then pissed on the ashes."
He didn't laugh. He just nodded slowly.
"You hungry?"
"Starving."
We ate in the back room—two day-old protein bars and tap water. It was barely a meal, but it felt like communion.
"Gonna sue him?" Murdoch asked.
"For what? I got nothin left. He's got lawyers stacked higher than my hospital bills."
He didn't answer. Just looked at me with that same old coach expression—the one he gave every fighter after a loss. Except this time, I'd won.
When I stood to go, he put a hand on my shoulder.
"You're a good fighter," he said. "But a better man."
I smiled at that.
Then I heard the door open.
Footsteps heavy, and slow.
Murdoch stiffened. I turned.
It was, Fargas?
The man I'd put on the mat two nights ago. Except now he wasn't wearing gloves. He was wearing a black hoodie that covered his eyes, and a cold glare. His eye was still swollen, his knuckles still raw.
And he was holding a gun.
I raised my hands slowly.
"Fargas… Look—"
"You humiliated me," he said flatly. "I had one chance at that belt. You took it."
"It was a fight," I said. "You knew the stakes."
"No," he snapped. "You knew the stakes. Marcus promised I'd win. He said you'd take the fall. Then you got noble all of a sudden."
My heart pounded.
Murdoch stepped forward. "Put it down, son. You don't want—"
Fargas shot him in the leg.
The sound tore through the gym like thunder. Murdoch collapsed, screaming, clutching his thigh.
"HEY!" I roared, lunging forward—but Fargas pointed the gun at me next.
"Your turn," he said. "No one robs me of my shot and walks away."
I should've begged.
Should've run.
But I didn't.
I stepped forward.
"Then do it," I said. "Let's finish the fight."
He pulled the trigger.
The world slowed.
I didn't feel pain at first, just after shock, like diving into freezing water. My body buckled. I dropped to my knees, blood spreading across my shirt.
I heard Murdoch screaming my name.
I looked around the gym. At the ring. At the walls. The old poster of me in my prime. The battered clock.
And I smiled, even then.
Because I died on the mat.
Where I belonged.
Then—nothing.
Then… everything.
I wasn't nothing anymore. I wasn't bleeding either. I think.
It felt like I was laying down.
I open my eyes after what felt like forever.
'WHAT THE-'
My limbs, they were short? My skin felt like it was baby smooth. Literally. my hands stretched out in front of me, tiny.
My vision blurred for a second from the cleared skies the colors were so harsh and bright they hurt. A soft giggle escaped my lips involuntarily. I tried to move. My head flopped to one side.
What the hell?
I blinked. The above me was cartoonishly blue with purple hovering above. Clouds that seems soaked with water spread every surface.
What was this?
"Aw, look! He's awake!"
That voice, it was sugar and thunder all at once.
The shock allowed me to tilt my head with new found strength, and a huge round head popped into view. Wide eyes. Blue skin and, was a cartoon?
"Oh my Blorp!" the figure shouted. " Isn't he adorable."
What?
Who the hell was Rad?
I tried to speak. Only gurgles came out.
Somewhere inside me, the boxer no the champion, was screaming.