I sat on the ring edge long after the lights had cut out and the last echo of the punching bag stopped swinging. The gym was a dead thing now. No yelling, no grunts, no bodies moving like wolves in heat. Just me, the creak of leather under me, and the soft throb in my left wrist — a reminder that Aamir could throw when he wasn't too busy trying to be a damn wildfire.
The floor still stank of sweat and antiseptic. Coach had left a while ago, probably thinking I'd locked up. He knew I never did. I needed places like this at night. Places where ghosts came quieter. Places where the ache in my bones was louder than the one in my chest.
I stared at the picture again.
It had been folded perfectly, like whoever sent it cared. Cared about the crease, the message, the way it would hit me.
Me and Khalid.
We were leaning against the hood of our old Corolla, both with busted lips and stupid grins. My arm around his neck. His hand flipping the bird to the camera. It was a summer night — I could still hear the crickets from that parking lot.
On the back: one word in all-caps block ink.
**SOON.**
I didn't like the neatness of it. Something about it felt colder than blood. Whoever wrote that didn't hate me. They were waiting.
---
The walk home was a blur. The city didn't sleep, but it sure liked to pretend. Neon signs buzzed like insects, and cars moved like ghosts with nowhere to be. Every alley whispered something. Every corner made me twitch.
I didn't used to flinch.
There was a time I *welcomed* danger. Let it taste me. Let it swing. I wanted it to try.
Now?
Now I was walking with my hands half-clenched in my hoodie pocket like a kid scared to break curfew.
I made it to the apartment. Lock. Deadbolt. Chain.
Then I slid the photo into the bottom of the kitchen drawer, under old bills and a lighter that didn't work anymore.
Out of sight doesn't mean out of mind. But it's easier to lie when the evidence is covered.
---
I didn't sleep. Not really.
There were flashes of rest. Bursts of black. But each time I closed my eyes, something opened them again.
A scream. A punch. A memory. That night.
The night Khalid—
No. Not tonight. Not now.
---
Coach wasn't at the gym when I arrived the next day. Just Aamir, shadowboxing like his life depended on it.
He didn't notice me at first. Not until I slipped my gloves on and started hitting the bag beside him.
"You comin' to finish the ass whoopin' you started yesterday?" he said without turning.
I cracked a smile I didn't mean to. "You couldn't handle round one."
"I got a chin."
"You got an attitude."
He turned to me, sweat already dripping down his cheekbones. The kid looked like a live wire — all twitch and fire. There was something behind his eyes, though. Something I'd seen before. A kind of hurt that turns into fists when no one's watching.
"Why you fight, Malik?" he asked.
I paused. Glove still pressed to the bag. "Because it's quiet when they're not moving."
He blinked. Maybe he thought I was being deep. Maybe he didn't get it at all. But he nodded anyway, like it made perfect sense.
"You ever think about stoppin'?"
"No."
"Why not?"
I looked at him then. Right in the face. "Because if I stop, I start thinking. And when I start thinking, I remember things I can't fix."
He didn't ask anything after that.
---
Coach showed up an hour later. Didn't say much. Just stood by the heavy bags watching me and Aamir go at it. I didn't go full speed. Neither did he. But the air between us was thick with something that wasn't friendly.
After the last round, Coach pulled me aside.
"You ain't sleepin', are you?"
I shrugged. "I sleep enough."
"You got bags under your eyes like you owe sleep money."
I laughed a little. "Thanks for the pep talk."
"I'm serious, Malik. You look cracked."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that like you believe it."
I stayed quiet.
He leaned closer. Lowered his voice. "You remember what happened last time you started spiraling? Before Khalid—?"
"Don't say his name right now."
Coach backed off. Held his hands up. "Alright. Just sayin'. You start punchin' when you should be thinkin', someone's gonna get hurt — and it might not be the other guy."
---
I left the gym early.
Not because of what Coach said. Not really.
Because my phone buzzed.
**UNKNOWN NUMBER**.
Voicemail.
I didn't listen to it right away.
I walked back to the apartment, boots loud on the pavement. Head down. Mind louder.
When I finally hit play, the voice was thick with smoke and static.
"Don't worry, Malik. This isn't the end. It's the warmup."
Click.
No name. But I knew the rhythm of that voice.
**Junaid.**
The last time I saw Junaid, he was bleeding on a motel carpet with a .22 in his hand and tears in his eyes. He begged me not to leave.
I left anyway.
And now he was back — or at least his voice was.
---
That night I cleaned my gloves.
It's a ritual. A quiet one.
Wipe down the leather. Pick out the blood. Smell the sweat. Remember the pain.
Some people pray before fights. Some people drink.
I clean my gloves. It's the only thing I know how to fix.
Halfway through, I heard it.
A noise.
Not the pipes. Not the TV. Something else.
Outside.
I crept to the window. Didn't look straight out — just peeked through the side.
There, by the streetlight, was a car.
Same one from before.
Same black tires. Same idle hum.
I stared.
And whoever was in there?
They turned the headlights off.
Not the engine. Just the lights.
Like they were saying:
**I see you. But you don't see me.**
I stared until the engine finally cut. Until the car pulled away slow. Like it had nowhere to be but was still exactly on time.
---
I didn't call the cops.
I didn't tell Coach.
What could I say?
"Hey, someone from my past who may or may not be dead is circling my place like a vulture?"
No one would believe me.
They'd say I was paranoid.
They'd say I needed help.
They'd say what I already knew — that I was slipping.
And the wor
st part?
I didn't even care.
Let them come.
Let Junaid show up.
Let the whole damn past come swinging.
I'd meet it in the middle of the ring.
And maybe — just maybe — I wouldn't dodge this time.