The arena still hummed in his veins as The Fighter sprawled on the apartment couch that night, robe discarded, ice pack on his knuckles. Raul fiddled the remote; Elena sketched idly nearby. The TV flickered to post‑fight coverage — his interview, live clip looping.
Interviewer:
"Another knockout! Walk us through that third‑round finish — Britney blasting, you dancing like it's a club. What's the secret?"
The Fighter (on‑screen, grinning sweaty):
"Secret? Love the beat, man. 'Slave 4 U' gets the hips loose and my feet light."
Real‑him cringed, sinking deeper into cushions. "God, hips loose? Sounded like a yoga infomercial."
Raul snorted. "Iconic. Own it."
Interviewer:
"Pro since twenty, viral entrances — Detroit gyms to sold‑out arenas. Sister Elena, buddy Raul always ringside. They your secret weapons?"
On‑screen:
"Family. Elena tapes my hands better than any cutman. Raul's my hype guy — his stupidly thick french accent and bad jokes keep it real. Without them, I would def be lost."
Elena smirked without looking up. "Tsk. Flatterer."
The Fighter groaned, dragging a hand through damp hair. "Too mushy. Argh they'll meme this bit forever."
Interviewer:
"Rising star, spotlight everywhere. Roommates turned brand — talk shows love the trio. Pressure mounting?"
On‑screen:
"Pressure builds champs. They ground me — glitter's just the fun part. Next fight? Bigger music, same plan."
He muted it, wincing. "Glitter's just the fun part? Kill me. Sounded scripted."
Raul tossed popcorn. "Nah, champ vibe. Fans eat it."
Elena glanced over, pencil pausing. "Real. To be cringe is to be free."
The Fighter exhaled, half‑smile breaking — then drifted to the window, gaze pulling outward like habit now. Rain‑streaked glass framed the dim street, sodium lamps pooling orange on wet pavement. His eyes snagged on it: a gray sedan idling curbside, three houses down. Never seen it before — neighborhood cars were familiar Fords and sensible SUVs, not this unmarked shadow with tinted windows. A faint glow leaked from inside, cigarette ember or phone screen pulsing slow, rhythmic. Figure hunched low, unmoving.
Chill traced his spine. Another win, more money, same quiet life — but lately, the quiet felt watched. He lingered, breath fogging glass, until the taillights finally flared and it eased away into the dark.
"Everything good?" Elena asked, not looking up.
"Yeah," he lied, dropping the curtain. "Just... decompressing."
Home felt smaller tonight. Spotlight or not, some shadows followed anyway.
> Chapter complete. Sedan disappeared into the night... █