The kid went back to playing. The Fighter sat back down on the bench.
Keep playing.
The words hung in the air like smoke. Empty. Performative. The kind of thing people said when they didn't know what else to offer.
He cringed, physically, shoulders tensing. What was that? Some motivational poster bullshit? Like two words from a stranger with glitter on his resume could change anything about this kid's life, this city, this whole goddamn situation.
The kid probably thought he was an asshole. Or worse—thought he actually meant it.
The Fighter pulled his hood up, sank lower on the bench.
The sun was setting now, orange light bleeding across abandoned buildings, turning rust into gold. Alchemy through angles. The city looked almost beautiful when you squinted. Almost like the postcards.
His phone sat heavy in his pocket. Elena's texts unanswered. Management's calls ignored. Raul waiting somewhere with terrible coffee.
He should leave. Get back in the car. Go back to Lyon, fight in two days, keep the machine running.
But his body wouldn't move.
Not paralyzed. Just... suspended. Like the moment between the bell and the first punch, when your body knows what to do but hasn't done it yet. That held breath. That threshold.
The basketball hit the rim with a metallic clang. The kids argued about fouls. Someone's phone played music—tinny, distorted through cheap speakers. Normal sounds. Life continuing.
The Fighter watched a plastic bag drift across the empty lot beside the court. It caught on a chain-link fence, fluttered there. Trapped but still moving.
He stared at the message. The screen's light hurt his eyes in the dimming evening.
[deleted]
[deleted]
[thumb hovered over send... deleted]
What could he actually do? Fly back, demand answers, punch someone? That's what he was good at—punching. But this wasn't a problem you could punch.
Someone was dismantling Elena's life piece by piece, and he was sitting on a bench in Detroit having an existential crisis about giving bad advice to a ten-year-old.
He pocketed the phone without responding.
A woman walked past with a small dog on a leash. She glanced at him—that same Detroit look. Acknowledged his existence without curiosity.
But her dog stopped. Stared at him. Hackles raised slightly.
The dog didn't move. Just kept staring. Low growl in its throat.
She pulled harder. The dog finally followed, but kept looking back at him. Like it saw something she didn't.
The Fighter's skin prickled.
He looked down at his hands. Normal. Just hands. But for a second—just a flash—he'd seen them covered in blood. Delaney's blood. His father's blood. Someone's blood.
He blinked. Clean hands. Normal hands.
The basketball court lights flickered on. Harsh fluorescent. The kids kept playing under the new light, their shadows stretching long and distorted across the concrete.
The Fighter watched those shadows. They moved wrong. Just slightly. A half-second delay, like they were deciding whether to follow their owners or do something else.
He rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, the shadows were normal.
The Fighter's blood went cold.
He stared at the message. Read it again. Again.
His hands were shaking.
The Fighter stood up so fast the bench scraped against concrete. He spun around, searching the park, the street, the windows of nearby buildings.
Nothing. No one. Just empty space and fading light.
But someone was watching. Someone knew where he was. Knew where Elena was. Knew she was painting yellow.
A car pulled into the lot. Not Raul's. Dark sedan with tinted windows. It idled there, engine running, headlights cutting through the gathering dark.
The Fighter watched it. Waiting for someone to get out, to reveal themselves.
The car just sat there.
The kids had stopped playing. Were staring at the car too. Then, without discussion, they grabbed their stuff and left quickly. Like they knew something. Like they'd learned to recognize danger.
The Fighter was alone in the park now.
The Fighter's vision tunneled. His breathing went shallow.
The sedan's headlights flashed. Once. Twice.
Then it pulled away slowly. Deliberately. Like it had made its point.
The Fighter stood frozen, watching the taillights disappear.
The Fighter looked around. The park was empty now. The court lights flickered. One went out completely. Then came back on. Then out again.
The lights flickered again. In the darkness between flickers, he saw them.
Raul's car screeched into the parking lot. The Fighter ran to it, yanked the door open, threw himself inside.
They tore through Detroit streets. The Fighter kept checking behind them. No one following. No dark sedans. No watchers.
But every window they passed felt like an eye. Every parked car a threat. Every shadow a person who shouldn't be there.
He couldn't finish the sentence.
The Fighter looked at the hotel entrance. At the windows. At the parking lot.
In the elevator, The Fighter watched the numbers climb. Watched his reflection in the metal doors. He looked haunted. Hollow.
The doors opened. The hallway stretched empty.
The Fighter walked to his room, key card in shaking hands.
Behind him, the elevator doors closed.