Page 24 of The Wright Man

Not just the brothers I lost in combat, but the ones I left behind. Kareem. Mama. Hell, even me. The me I was before everything cracked.

I wanted this place to be more than a gym.

I wanted it to be a graveyard for excuses. A church for grit. A home for people who needed their power back, same way I did.

Footsteps in the back lot pulled me out of my head.

I checked my watch.

These bastards are late.

The front door creaked open like it owed me money, and I didn't even have to look up.

"Look at God," I said. "The help has arrived."

"Ain't no way you talkin' slick while rockin' them 2006-ass boots," Riq's voice shot back, quick and bright like always.

I glanced up just as he strutted into the space like he owned it. Tariq Barnes, aka Riq with no "u," because he swore extra vowels were for colonizers. Tall, lean, and shaped like a wide receiver who did pushups out of boredom. Dark skin, bald head, full beard—said it made him look "distinguished and untrustworthy, like a slim Black lumberjack." Dude had on a sleeveless hoodie, gold chain, and Nike slides like we weren't standing in a half-finished gym with drywall dust still floating in the air.

"You late," I said.

"I'm fashionably late. There's a difference."

Behind him, a much larger shadow ducked under the doorframe without a word.

Sticks.

Nathan "Sticks" Rollins didn't talk unless he had to. Six-seven, built like a brick shithouse, always dressed like the military still had a hold on his closet. Compression shirt, tactical joggers, wrist wraps he probably didn't need, and that permanent look on his face like somebody just insulted his mama and he was deciding whether it was worth catching a case.

He nodded once at me, then headed straight for the espresso.

"Morning to you too, sunshine," I muttered.

Sticks grunted, took a sip, and leaned against the far wall with all the grace of a fridge learning how to meditate.

We met during my second deployment. Different units, same base. All three of us were from the DMV (the local acronym DC, Maryland, and Virginia), and once that came out, it was a wrap. Riq was the first to spot my Howard U hoodie and started talking shit like we'd known each other since middle school. Sticks followed a few days later when he overheard me say "jont" in a sentence and raised an eyebrow like a secret handshake had just gone down.

We bonded fast after that. Shared gear. Shared food. Shared silence when things went south.

I was the youngest, but Riq always said I had the oldest soul—called me Grandaddy Recon. Said I came out the womb tired.

We weren't blood, but in every way that mattered—we were brothers.

They both got out of the service before me. Riq first, after a shoulder injury he still pretended didn't bother him. Sticks next, quiet and methodical, like he was checking off a list he wrote in his head at seventeen. They stayed in touch, laid the foundation for GhostFit with nothing but grit, saved cash, and an abandoned old warehouse space.

And then they waited for me to finish my second term. And now here we were.

"Y'all really ain't change," I said, watching Riq spin in a slow circle, arms outstretched like he was about to bless the space with holy water. "Own a whole grown-ass business and you still act like clowns."

"This 'clown' got us two sponsorship meetings next week and three meetings with nonprofits for that trauma-informed rollout you wanted," Riq said, grinning. "Put some respect on my name."

Sticks grunted again. Which, from him, translated to: He's not wrong.

"Anyway," Riq said, sipping his latte like it was Hennessy. "You good, Wright? You been quiet. Quiet for you is, like... dead."

I didn't answer right away. Just let my eyes drift around the space again, like the vision could fill the silence in my chest.

Riq noticed, of course. He always did.