The hotel room smelled like antiseptic and stale air conditioning.
The Fighter sat on the edge of the bed, still in his training clothes from this morning's session, staring at his phone. The screen showed his management's latest message: We need to talk about the Elena situation. Call when you can.
He didn't call.
Raul emerged from the bathroom, towel around his neck, hair still wet, humming some pop song under his breath.
"Tu vas regarder ce téléphone toute la journée ou quoi?"
He struck a dramatic pose in the doorway.
"Because if you are, I'm ordering room service. The fancy kind. With those little chocolates."
"She's not answering," The Fighter said quietly. "I've called five times today."
Raul's playful expression softened. He sat down beside him, the mattress dipping, and bumped his shoulder.
"Maybe she's painting. Tu sais comment elle est when she's working. The world could end and she wouldn't notice."
He made exaggerated painting gestures.
"Swoosh swoosh, very artistic."
Despite everything, The Fighter's mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
"Elle va bien,"
Raul continued, gentler now.
"She's probably covered in paint right now, listening to terrible music, eating cereal for dinner like the disaster human she is."
"She sounded weird yesterday. Distant."
"Dude. She's been through shit. She's allowed to be distant."
Raul grabbed the phone from his hands and set it on the nightstand.
"Stop. You have a fight in three days. You need to focus."
The Fighter laughed—bitter, short.
"Focus. Right."
He stood, moved to the window. Lyon spread below them, gray and unfamiliar. Another city. Another hotel room. Another fight to prepare for while his sister fell apart thousands of miles away.
"I should go back," he said. "Cancel the fight. Just go back."
"And do what?" Raul's voice stayed light but firm. "Sit in her apartment and watch her paint? She doesn't need a babysitter. She needs space. And you—"
He stood, joining him at the window.
"You need to remember you're a person too. Not just her brother. Not just The Fighter. An actual human who's allowed to have his own life."
"She needs her brother."
"She has her brother. You talk every day. You sent her money for art supplies—which, by the way, she spent on the expensive paints, so clearly she's making good choices."
Raul grinned.
"Chef, you can't fix this for her. You can't fight her demons. She has to do that herself."
The Fighter pressed his forehead against the window. The glass was cold.
"I keep seeing it," he said quietly. "The video. Her on top of that woman. The look on her face."
"It was survival," Raul said immediately. "Wrong, yes. Fucked up, yes. But survival. You of all people should understand that."
He paused.
"You get paid to hurt people. She hurt someone who was terrorizing her. The only difference is you have a ref and spotlights."
"It's not the same..."
"Maybe not."
Raul grabbed his shoulders, turned him around.
"But listen. You are allowed to feel horrible. You're allowed to be tired. But you don't get to destroy yourself because she's destroying herself. That doesn't help anyone."
His rings caught the light as he gestured.
"Besides, I booked us that trainer for this afternoon. Remember? The one everyone says is amazing? We can't waste that."
"I don't know if I can—"
"You can. Because you're going to put on your ridiculous sparkly gloves, and we're going to that gym, and you're going to punch things until you feel better. Or at least until you're too tired to be sad."
Raul's smile was gentle.
"C'est ça the plan. Very therapeutic. Very professional."
The Fighter closed his eyes. His body ached—not from training, but from something deeper. The kind of exhaustion that sleep didn't fix.
"I'm tired, Raul."
"I know."
"Like... really tired. Of all of it. The fighting. The interviews. The fucking glitter."
He laughed, hollow.
"I put on that costume and smile and everyone thinks I'm having the time of my life. And maybe I was, once. But now I just feel—"
Empty? Hollow? Like a marionette whose strings were being pulled by hands he couldn't see?
"You feel like shit," Raul finished. "Because your sister is suffering and you can't fix it. Because your management keeps calling about 'the situation' like she's a PR problem. Because you're realizing that being good at hurting people doesn't actually solve anything."
He squeezed his shoulders.
"But showing up for your fight helps pay her rent. Doing interviews helps keep your career alive. And not falling apart yourself helps ensure there's at least one functional person in your family."
The Fighter wanted to argue. But Raul was right. He was always right, in that infuriating way.
"I hate this," he said instead.
"I know. But we're going to survive it. Together."
Raul pulled him into a hug, quick, tight, then released him with a gentle shove.
"Now get changed. We have that trainer in forty minutes and you know how I get when we're late. Very stressed. Very dramatic. It's not pretty."
Despite everything, The Fighter felt something loosen in his chest. Just slightly.
"Three days," he said.
"Three days," Raul confirmed, already pulling training gear out of the bag. "Then we go back. Check on her in person. Make sure she's actually okay. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Bon. Now one more call to Elena, then we go hit things. Sound good?"
📞 VOICEMAIL RECORDING
Elena's outgoing message: "Hey, it's Elena. Leave a message or don't. I probably won't listen to it anyway."
Beep.
The Fighter: "Hey. It's me. Again. I know you're probably painting and ignoring the world, which is fine, but... just call me back when you can? I miss you. And I—" [pause] "I'm worried. Not in a bad way. Just in a brother way. Anyway. Call me."
He hung up.
Raul was already at the door, gym bag over his shoulder, that indestructible smile back in place.
"Allez. Let's go make you feel better through the ancient art of punching things."
450 kilometers northwest
In a small apartment where my sister is either healing or falling apart
and I can't tell which.
The gym was small, tucked above a grocery store, the kind of place that smelled like old leather and sweat and determination.
The trainer The Fighter had hired for the day was a compact woman in her fifties with arms like steel cables and a no-nonsense expression.
"You're late," she said in heavily accented English.
"Traffic!" Raul lied cheerfully. "Also, we stopped for croissants. Want one?"
She ignored him, turning to The Fighter.
"You're the one with the glitter, non? I saw your last fight. Sloppy footwork in round two."
"I won that fight."
"You won because your opponent was worse. Not because you were good."
She gestured to the ring.
"Warm up. Then we work."
Raul grinned, settling onto a bench.
"I like her. Very mean. Very French."
For the first hour, The Fighter moved through drills. The trainer was relentless—correcting his stance, barking instructions in rapid French, making him repeat combinations until his arms burned.
But his mind kept drifting. Elena's face. The voicemail that went unanswered. Management's texts piling up.
His punches grew sloppy. His footwork lazy.
"Where's your head at?!"
the coach shouted.
*Approximately 450 kilometers northwest,* The Fighter thought. *In a small apartment where my sister is either healing or falling apart and I can't tell which.*
"Sorry," he said out loud. "I'm here. Let's go again."
He threw another combination. Better this time. Sharper.
His body knew what to do even when his mind was elsewhere.
That was the problem, wasn't it?
He'd spent so long training his body to fight that he'd forgotten how to fight the things that actually mattered.
The things you couldn't punch.
Like guilt. And helplessness. And the sinking feeling that no matter how many times he won in the ring, he was losing the only fight that actually counted.
Raul watched from the corner, arms crossed, concern etched in his face.
"This."
Then Paris.
Then maybe, MAYBE, he could breathe again.
But for now, he just threw punches and pretended they hit something that mattered.
> Connection status: STRAINED █ Kilometers between: 450 █ Days until reunion: 3 █