The fighter just argued with a merchant to make his prices lower in a tourist place.
They were on Rue Cler, standing in front of a souvenir kiosk that sold cheaply made Eiffel Towers for fifteen euros each. The fighter held one in his hand, plastic still warm from the sun, and glared at the vendor.
The vendor, a man with a Gauloise dangling from his lip, shrugged. "Fifteen. C'est le prix."
Raul leaned against the metal post of a streetlamp, watching with a faint smirk. They'd been in Paris three days, and the fighter had already started half a dozen arguments about overpriced coffee, museum tickets, a crepe he swore was smaller than the one the guy next to him got. It was like he'd decided the whole city was trying to rip him off, and he was going to fight every transaction one by one.
The vendor exhaled smoke, studied the fighter's face—the fading bruise on his jaw from a sparring session two weeks back, the set of his shoulders under a simple black tee, the way he stood like he was ready to step into a ring. He finally sighed, snatched the plastic tower back.
The fighter nodded once, handed over a crumpled ten and two ones. He took the souvenir, tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie, and turned away like he'd just won a title.
Raul pushed off the lamp post and fell into step beside him. The street was crowded with mid-morning tourists, the air thick with the scent of fresh bread and exhaust.
He nodded toward the gutter, where a sleek grey shape had indeed just darted from behind a dumpster.
He shook his head, still smiling. "I'm not greedy. I'm just not stupid."
The fighter didn't answer right away. They turned onto a quieter side street, the noise of the market fading behind them. He pulled the plastic Eiffel Tower back out of his pocket, held it up so it caught the thin Parisian sun.
He rotated the cheap souvenir in his fingers.
Raul was quiet, listening.
He said it simply, like it was obvious. Like it was a basic law of physics: you see an unfair price, you fight it. No matter who you are, no matter how much you have.
Raul felt something tighten in his chest. He'd known the fighter for years, had seen him take punches that would drop most men, had heard him scream in frustration after a loss, had watched him quietly hand over his entire purse to a struggling gym. But this—this stubborn, principled haggling over plastic junk—was something else. It was the same impulse that made him fight, just directed at a different kind of opponent.
That got another laugh out of him, brighter this time. "I'll take it."
They walked in comfortable silence for a block, heading nowhere in particular. The fighter's phone buzzed in his pocket—probably his sister, checking in. He ignored it.
The fighter nodded, satisfied. He stopped at a small boulangerie, peered at the prices in the window. A baguette: 1.20 euros.
As he went inside, Raul stayed on the sidewalk, watching through the glass. He saw the fighter smile at the old woman behind the counter, point to the bread, hand over exact change without a word of argument. He saw the woman smile back, say something that made the fighter duck his head, shy.
When he came back out, baguette tucked under his arm, he broke off the end—the quignon, the best part—and handed it to Raul.
They walked on, tearing pieces off the bread as they went. The fighter was quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet now. Lighter. Like he'd won something more important than a three-euro discount.
Halfway down the block, he stopped in front of a homeless man sitting against a wall, a worn hat on the ground in front of him. Without a word, the fighter pulled out his wallet, took out a twenty-euro note, and dropped it in the hat.
The man looked up, startled. "Merci, monsieur. Merci beaucoup."
The fighter just nodded and kept walking.
He said it like it explained everything. And maybe, Raul thought, watching him tear off another piece of baguette, it did.
They rounded the corner, and the Seine appeared before them, grey-green and gleaming. The fighter stopped at the railing, leaned over to look at the water. For a long moment, he was still, the breeze ruffling his hair.
He hesitated. "I keep thinking my mom would've liked it here. The bread. The light. All of it."
Raul didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded.
The fighter pushed back from the railing, took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's go find that coffee place Elena told us about. The one with the cat."
The fighter grinned, that lopsided, boyish grin that made him look seventeen again. "Only if it's overpriced."
They walked on, two figures moving through the postcard beauty of Paris, one of them with a cheap plastic tower in his pocket and a principle in his heart that no one could knock out of him. Not for any price.