Werewolf

The air in the stairwell is stagnant, smelling of old concrete and floor wax. RAUL is a few steps ahead, taking the climb with the practiced ease of someone who grew up in these buildings. THE FIGHTER follows, his heavy boots thudding against the stone.

Even for a world-class athlete, six flights of stairs after a day of travel is a grind.

They reach the sixth-floor landing. Raul doesn't knock; he just pushes the door open, and the sound of a rowdy party spills out into the hallway.

The apartment is small, saturated with laughter and shisha smoke drifting near the ceiling. JEREMY, PIERRE, MARIANE, and JOE are slumped around a coffee table littered with cans and pizza boxes.

Suddenly, the door swings wide open. RAUL enters, a massive grin on his face.

Behind him, THE FIGHTER enters. He has to duck his head slightly to clear the doorway. He wears a dark hoodie, hands in his pockets, looking like a predator lost in a playground. He gives a polite, slightly awkward wave as the group's stares freeze on him.

The Fighter laughs softly. It's a deep sound that seems to settle the electric air in the room. He sits down, his broad shoulders occupying the space of two people on the old sofa.

The Fighter closes his eyes. For the first time in months, there are no cameras, no contracts, and no journalists asking questions about his sister or his traumas. There is only the sound of Créteil outside and people who aren't waiting for him to fail.

The Fighter feels a finger tap his shoulder. He opens one eye. Raul gives him a mischievous wink, showing his own card: a Werewolf. The Fighter looks at his own. A Wolf too.

A carnivorous smile—the first of the evening—stretches across the American's lips.

The atmosphere in the apartment is at its peak. Jeremy is shouting in French that Pierre is definitely the wolf because he's avoiding eye contact, while Mariane is trying to convince everyone that Joe is lying. In the middle of this joyous chaos, The Fighter remains focused, his phone resting discreetly on his knees.

He's using the real-time transcription feature on Google Translate to try and follow the accusations flying around. The words "Wolf," "Liar," and "Guilty" flash in English on his screen, making him smirk.

Then, a notification slides down from the top of the screen. Then a second. Then an avalanche.

The Fighter's smile vanishes instantly. His body, usually so fluid and relaxed, freezes as if he's just taken a liver shot he didn't see coming. The noise around him—Raul's laughter, Jeremy's teasing—becomes a distant, muffled hum, like he's underwater.

He stares at the screen. An auto-playing video thumbnail catches his eye: he recognizes the silhouette of Elena, his little sister, the one he has spent his life trying to pull out of the shadows. He sees her fists fly. He sees the blood.

Raul gives him a friendly nudge on the shoulder, but the Fighter doesn't react. He doesn't even blink. His fingers grip the edges of his phone so hard his knuckles turn white—the same knuckles that made him famous, now feeling like lead.

Raul leans over, his gaze falling on the phone screen. Raul's face pales instantly. The joy of Créteil dies in a heartbeat.

The Fighter finally looks up. He doesn't see anyone in the room. His eyes are hollow, haunted. He no longer sees his friends or the game. He sees Elena, alone in Chicago, drowning in the exact same violence he spent his career trying to channel into the ring.