Lachlan
Detroit — Three Days After the Fight
Rain whispered against the windows like it had something to confess.
We were back at Chiron's—his place above the gym, wood-paneled walls and floorboards that creaked like old bones. A couple of mismatched chairs, a couch that had definitely seen better fights than the one in San Diego, and a TV with a screen burn in the top corner from a paused channel logo.
Ria curled up next to me, her legs tucked under a blanket, sipping tea that smelled faintly of honey and eucalyptus. Chiron sat in the armchair across from us, stone-still like always, a glass of something neat and dark in his hand. He didn't say much. Didn't need to. When he was quiet, it meant he was thinking. When he was thinking, the rest of us were smart enough to stay quiet too.
The broadcast flickered back from commercial. Same sports channel, same overly-animated hosts in suits that didn't fit quite right, sitting behind a desk with a giant banner reading:
"IFC: BLOODLINE OF VIOLENCE – LEGENDS AND THEIR LEGACIES"
My name was in the subtitle.
They played the footage again. That final reversal. My elbow breaking open Knyazev's cheek. The way he'd gone limp. How the ref had thrown himself between us like a man trying to stop a train with his chest.
I didn't flinch watching it. Not anymore. That part of me was too tired to hide from it.
The host leaned forward, all teeth and opinion.
"What Lachlan Smith did in that cage wasn't just brutal—it was methodical. That was a message. The Ghost isn't just a brawler. He's a tactician now. That win puts him in line for a title shot. But let's not forget who shaped this man—his trainer, Chiron Chakrii. A name that echoes through every underground ring and every blood-soaked gym on the East Coast. A living legend in combat sports."
Ria glanced at Chiron. He didn't react. Just sipped his drink, jaw set like granite.
"You look at Smith's composure, the way he dissected Knyazev—hell, you're looking at echoes of Chiron's own fight philosophy. Discipline. Precision. Controlled savagery. The old lion taught the young wolf, and now the wolf is hunting."
They cut to a grainy clip—Chiron in his prime, bare-knuckled, sweat and blood streaking down his torso in a ring lit by construction lamps. He knocked a man unconscious with a liver shot so clean it looked fake.
The screen went back to the studio.
"Chakrii never fought for the belt. Never went commercial. But fighters like him? They don't need gold. Their legacy is etched into the skin of the ones they train. And Smith? He might just become the most dangerous man this sport has seen since Chakrii himself."
Chiron turned the volume down with one flick of the remote. The silence after hit like a body shot.
He looked at me. Not pride in his eyes. Not even satisfaction. Just quiet assessment. Like he was still deciding who I was.
"I didn't train you to become me," he said, voice low, like gravel rolling in a storm drain. "I trained you to become something better."
My throat tightened.
"I don't feel better," I muttered. "I just feel… sharp. All the time. Like I'm made of glass and everyone keeps tapping it to see if I'll break."
Ria leaned into me, her arm brushing mine. Warm. Solid. Real.
"You didn't break," she said.
"Not yet."
Chiron stood. Poured himself another half-glass and walked to the window, watching the rain like it had answers.
"You're in the deep water now," he said without turning. "You won't float on talent anymore. From here on out, everything costs more. Every hit, every win, every choice you make outside the cage. The press wants to build you up because they want to watch you fall."
He turned to me. His eyes were steady. Ancient.
"So don't give them the fall."
Ria looked up at me. I could feel her heartbeat through her sleeve. Slow and steady.
"I don't care if they crown you king or call you a monster," she said softly. "I care if you lose yourself."
I didn't answer right away.
Outside, the rain thickened into sleet. Detroit at night looked like a city that had survived itself a thousand times and was still trying to decide if it was worth doing again.
I looked down at my hands. The bruises were fading, but the bone-deep ache was still there.
Then I looked at her. And at Chiron.
I nodded once.
"I'm still here."
For now.