He laughs. Rick doesn’t say a damn thing.
I clock out ten minutes after my shift ends, hands trembling, chest hollowed out. I sit in my car with the engine off, fists clenched on the wheel, the only thing holding me together.
I could call someone. But I won’t. Instead, I sit in the dark, the silence ringing in my ears, feedback from an untuned radio.
My phone buzzes. Calendar alert.Fight Night – 9PM.
Malachi sent it earlier in the week as a blanket invite to the usuals. But I know him. It wasn’t casual. It was a whisper saying I’m still here.
I didn’t delete it. Didn’t respond. But I show up anyway.
Saturday night. Gravel crunches beneath my boots. Engines rumble. Music thumps, a second heartbeat behind warehouse walls. The air is cool, sharp. It smells of oil and adrenaline, sweat and something wilder humming beneath the surface.
I pull my jacket tighter and tell myself I’m just here to watch. Just curiosity. Not him. Never him.
Inside, it’s loud. Too loud. The stink of sweat, smoke, and cheap bourbon coats everything. The cage match hasn’t started yet, but the crowd is already lit, humming with chaos.
I think about placing a bet on Malachi, but don’t. I could use the money. But I refuse to be anything resembling my father.
My eyes scan the crowd without permission. They find him. And I stop breathing. Malachi, posted against the far wall,violence in waiting. Black shirt, sleeves shoved up. Jaw sharp enough to cut.
He hasn’t seen me. Yet.
My chest tightens, pulse skittering. I should leave. I don’t. Instead, I walk farther in. Head high. Spine straight. Each step peeling me open from the inside.
This isn’t forgiveness. This isn’t a white flag.
It’s just showing up.
A hairline fracture in the wall I swore would hold.
He steps into the cage, a storm called by name. There’s a hush that ripples around him, a pause in the noise. The kind reserved for disasters and gods.
He peels off his shirt, and the air shifts. Every muscle on him is cut with purpose, tight with restraint. I remember exactly how they felt; how they moved when they moved with me.
His opponent’s already waiting. Big guy. Broad. Neck inked in black vines. Grinning, certain he’s got a chance. He doesn’t.
Malachi doesn’t posture. Doesn’t speak. Just rolls his shoulders once, slowly, then cracks his knuckles, unlocking something inside.
For one second, he hesitates—just a flicker—and I swear I see it. The storm he’s trying to hold back. Not for his opponent. For himself. For me. The bell hits like a detonation.
Malachi dodges the first punch, counters with a strike to the ribs that folds the guy for half a breath. Another hit. Harder.
The guy recovers, then swings wildly, clipping Malachi’s jaw. The crowd roars. I don’t. I just watch. Because this? This isn’t just violence. It’s confession. A sermon of fists and fire.
Now I can see what I didn’t let myself see before. He’s fighting for control, not victory.
Fighting not to break, not to burn. Like the cage is the only thing keeping it all from spilling out.
And it’s beautiful.
Blood smears the canvas in the second round. Not his. The other guy’s lip is busted, dripping red. But he keeps swinging.
And Malachi? He lets him. Lets him feel close to victory. Lets him taste it. Then rips it away.
One brutal hook to the jaw. Another to the gut. A knee to the sternum that sends him crashing down, gravity abandoning him.
It’s not mercy. It’s release. The ref calls it. Fight’s over. But Malachi doesn’t move. He stands above the man, a statue carved from fury. Chest heaving. Hands twitching.
