Chiron
If I'm being honest, I thought Lachlan was going to lose his first official match. He is learning fast, but he started so late, these other guys have been doing this for years. He pulled through though, the flying armbar something he did on pure instinct, sure I taught some submissions but not that. But if I'm being honest, I would never say this sober.
Lachlan didn't disappoint in the beginning. He moved with a confidence that felt almost foreign for a rookie. Quick on his feet, fists strong and clean. There was something about him that reminded me of the early days—those reckless, headstrong moments when I thought I could take on the world, or at least get a taste of its satisfaction. But there was something else too. A softness, a hesitation that slipped into his movements, just enough for his opponent to capitalize on it.
Impressive, sure. But disappointing. He fought like he wasn't truly ready to face the full weight of it. You can't pull punches in this world, and Lachlan—he hesitated. I saw it when he stepped back for a second, giving his opponent a breath, a moment to gather himself. No. You never give them that chance. Not in this arena. Not in life.
I tried to drown the frustration in another gulp of vodka, but it didn't help. I could feel it deep in my chest—like a knot tightening around my lungs. That's the problem with being impressed and disappointed at the same time. It eats at you, gnaws at your insides.
I had seen what a real fight looked like. What it felt like. It wasn't just about the punches or the blood—hell, it was never about that for me. It was about glory, the thrill. The ability to get up after you've been knocked down and smile. The alcohol blurred it all, but I still remembered those days when I was sharp enough to know what mattered.
Lachlan? He had the potential. That much was clear. But he was still holding himself back. The same way I did, back when I was too busy nursing the bottle instead of facing the truth of what was staring me down.
He took that punch. And I saw it in his eyes—the realization that he'd made a mistake. That's when the real fight began. But by then, it was almost too late. He wasn't ready to truly commit. He was still trying to decide whether he wanted to win or whether he just wanted to prove he could be something. And in the end, that's the problem. You either want it, or you don't. There's no in-between.
I saw him stagger, but then I saw him rally. That fire came back, brighter than before. But I couldn't shake the disappointment that hung over me like a storm cloud. He wasn't there yet. Not the way I hoped.
I sighed, and took another sip, feeling the warmth spread through me like a fading memory. And for a second, just a second, I wondered if I'd been too harsh on him. Maybe I had forgotten what it was like to learn, to take those first few steps. But then the bitter aftertaste of my drink hit, and I knew—I wasn't wrong.
Lachlan had a long way to go. And I wouldn't be here forever to show him the way. If he couldn't figure it out on his own, he'd learn the hard way. Just like I did.
Hell, maybe that was the best thing I could offer him now. I told Lachlan to rest for a week. I know his body will heal just fine, but his mind, that's what worries me.
I never know what's going on in that kid's head. I know he had a run in with Samson, I know Samson beat him bad, very bad. I know there's a girl he's known for a while, who he feels betrayed him. I know that he and Ria are getting closer, I know that Ria has feelings for him. I can see it. I don't know the details though, I don't know if he's processing anything. Has he processed what he did to those men? I don't know. I may never know.
I see a younger version of myself, of my old friend. I feel that Lachlan has a lot on his mind, I just hope that he doesn't dwell on it too much. I hope he doesn't get consumed by his shortcomings. That he doesn't get consumed by the thrill, That he doesn't rely on rage or anger. I can tell though. All he feels is rage.