Five years had passed.
The gym echoed with the chaotic energy of children—laughter, yelling, the rapid patter of tiny feet on the rubber floor. In one far corner, Eli Carter hunched down with a grimace, wiping sweat off his brow with the frayed sleeve of his faded gray shirt. He scrubbed away the muddy footprints, one by one, in silence.
His frame was lean—muscles still present, but softened by exhaustion and time. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, his face worn like an old glove, stretched and creased by too many hard days. He worked quietly, like someone trying to disappear, despite being smack in the middle of a lively gymnasium.
The coach walked past him without a glance. She was young, energetic, dressed in sleek athletic gear, clipboard in hand. No "hello," no nod. Eli didn't mind. He expected nothing. He wasn't there for recognition. He was there to clean—and to earn a paycheck that didn't even cover half the electric bill, let alone the mountain of hospital debt waiting for him like a wolf at his doorstep.
Once the last scuff was gone, he gathered his supplies and winced, placing a hand on his aching lower back. The setting sun painted the sky in a deep orange hue as he stepped outside through the gym's side door.
His bike—if you could still call it that—was leaned up against a cracked wall. The frame rusted, one wheel slightly warped. Still, he mounted it with practiced difficulty, pressing down on the pedals slowly, deliberately. Each movement reminded him that life hadn't let go of its grip on him.
He passed a coffee shop where a group of nurses were enjoying their break. One of them giggled behind her hand.
"Is he still riding that thing? Looks like it came out of World War II," she whispered.
The others chuckled. Then quieted. Eli's eyes passed over them for a brief moment before he looked away.
Among them stood Jenna. She held a steaming coffee, her eyes fixed on him—not mockingly, not with pity. Just... observing. No smile. No words. Just a still presence as he passed by like a breeze no one was sure they felt.
He kept going. Street by street. Alley by alley.
By the time he reached the hospital, dusk had started to fall. He parked his bike by the rear entrance, took a breath, and stepped inside.
The smell hit him immediately—disinfectant, alcohol, something metallic and too clean. The kind of clean that reminded you something was always dying nearby. The halls were quiet, sterile, and heavy, like time moved slower here.
Room 413. He knew it better than his own name.
His mother lay there, just as she had that morning. Frail. Motionless. The gentle wheeze of her oxygen machine was the only indication she was still with him.
Her skin was pale, translucent in places. The once strong hands that had raised him now rested like fallen leaves on the bed. Tubes and monitors surrounded her like a tangle of synthetic lifelines.
He sat beside her, taking her cold hand in both of his.
"I finished early today," he murmured. "One of the kids kicked me in the leg. Kinda reminded me of when Coach used to do that back in training. You'd laugh every time I came home limping. Said as long as I was conscious, I was fine."
A broken smile tugged at his lips.
There was no reply. There never was. But he kept talking, like he always did. It was their ritual now—his voice, her silence.
After a few minutes, he stood, leaned down, and kissed her forehead.
Then left.
As he stepped outside, his phone buzzed.
[CALL: JOSH]
He sighed. Answered.
"Figured you'd call."
"Still psychic, huh? I got an offer for you."
"Of course you do."
"Same venue. Same basement ring. Same crowd. Three fights. Lose the first. Win the second. Lose the third. Real clean, real simple. No knockouts. No surprises."
"How much?"
"Five hundred a fight. Fifteen hundred for the night. You need it, Eli. I know you do."
Josh's voice always had that edge—slick, knowing, too casual for the blood-soaked business he ran. But he wasn't wrong.
Eli didn't answer immediately. He stared down at the utility bill folded in his pocket, damp from sweat. Red lettering screamed at him: PAST DUE.
"Tomorrow night?"
"Nine sharp. Just remember—no theatrics. They want a show, not a bloodbath."
The call ended without goodbyes.
Eli looked at his bike.
It stared back.
He got on.
The city was quieter now. Rain began to drizzle, gentle but cold, dotting his face like a whisper. The streets shimmered under the streetlamps, puddles catching reflections like broken mirrors.
He rode through them all.
He didn't fight because he loved it. Not anymore. Not since the accident. Not since the fall from grace. He wasn't chasing fame. Wasn't trying to relive old glories.
He fought because there was no one else.
Every illegal bout, every bruise, every rib cracked and hidden beneath long sleeves—every drop of sweat and spit and pain was just a currency. A way to hold off the inevitable. A way to buy his mother one more week, one more day.
He didn't steal. He didn't beg. He didn't kill.
He just sold his body—over and over—in a cage, under dim lights, before a crowd that didn't care who he was. Just as long as he bled on cue.
And no one—not even Jenna, not the nurses, not the gym kids, not Josh—knew who Eli Carter really was.
But soon enough, someone would.