He’s been fighting fortwo years.
Climbing the ranks like a man with no ceiling.
He’s known for two things: never speaking off-camera... and never losing.
I don’t understand it.
I don’tunderstand him.
How did he survive?
Why didn’t he come find me?
What the hell is hedoingin a spotlight when we were supposed to disappear?
My fists curl and uncurl, my palms raw from clenching.
The walls feel too close. The lights too bright. The air too thick.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and almost flinch—hair a mess, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, mouth tight with something like betrayal.
“You son of a bitch,” I whisper. “You left me in the dark and wentpublic?”
But even as the words leave my lips, they taste wrong.
Because there washurtin his eyes.
When he saw me in that press box, right after the fight… gods.
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t wink or nod or even breathe.
Hestopped.
Mid-stride.
In front of thousands of screaming fans.
And helookedat me.
The air between us vanished. The noise. The lights.
There was only that look.
Like a ghost seeing sun again.
Like a drowning man surfacing to air he thought he’d never taste again.
And in that instant, I knew.
Hehadn’tstopped looking.
The press session is packed.Bright lights, synthetic marble floors, crowd-control drones scanning for trouble.
I wear a hood. Keep Ripley with a sitter from NovaCast I half-trust because her teeth are bad and her eyes are kind.
My badge gets me front row.
