The gym smelled like sweat and rubber mats, familiar in the way home is supposed to be but lately wasn't. The Fighter wrapped his hands methodicallyâleft, right, left againâwhile Raul sat on the bench scrolling through his phone, afro outlined by the fluorescent lights overhead.
"You're doing it wrong," Raul said without looking up.
"I've been wrapping my hands for six years."
"Doesn't mean you're doing it right."
The Fighter paused, looked at his perfectly wrapped hands, then at Raul.
"What's wrong with them?"
"Nothing. I'm just bored." Raul grinned, finally looking up. "You've been wrapping for like ten minutes. Either hit something or let's go get food."
"I'm thinking."
"That's your problem. Too much thinking." Raul stood, stretching. "Elena texted. She's bringing lunch."
"Here?"
"Yeah. Said she needed to get out of the apartment." Raul's expression shifted slightly. "She okay?"
The Fighter finished wrapping his left hand.
"She says she is."
"That's not an answer."
"I know."
They fell into comfortable silence. The Fighter moved to the heavy bag, started with light jabs. Testing. His body knew the rhythmâone-two, step, one-twoâbut his mind was elsewhere.
Detroit. The gym. The gloves he'd left behind. The pink star clip still sitting on his bathroom counter because he couldn't bring himself to throw it away.
"You're pulling your punches," Raul observed.
"I'm warming up."
"You're distracted."
The Fighter stopped. Lowered his hands.
"Yeah."
"Detroit?"
"Everything."
Raul nodded, understanding without needing details.
"Elena's thing is in two weeks. You nervous?"
"For her or for me?"
"Both."
The Fighter unwrapped his hands, suddenly not in the mood to hit anything.
"People are going to be watching. Cameras. Press. All focused on her for once instead of me."
"And?"
"And I don't know if that makes it better or worse."
"Better," Raul said firmly. "She deserves the spotlight. Her work is incredible."
"I know."
"So what's the problem?"
The Fighter sat on the bench, hands hanging between his knees.
"What if they don't care about her work? What if they just want to know about me? About us? Aboutâ"
"Then fuck them." Raul sat beside him. "She's not showing her art for them. She's showing it for herself. And for the people who actually get it."
"Easy for you to say."
"Yeah, it is. Because I'm not the one overthinking everything." Raul bumped his shoulder. "She's going to be great. You're going to be supportive and not weird. And I'm going to eat all the free cheese at the opening."
The Fighter almost smiled.
"There's not going to be free cheese."
"There's always free cheese at art things. It's a rule."
The gym door opened. Elena walked in carrying a paper bag, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, paint still smudged on her jeans.
"I brought sandwiches," she announced. "And before you ask, yes, I got the good bread."
Raul jumped up.
"See? She gets it. The good bread matters."
Elena handed out sandwichesâturkey for The Fighter, vegetarian for Raul, roast beef for herself. They sat on the gym benches like it was a picnic table, paper wrappers crinkling, the smell of deli meat mixing with gym sweat in a way that shouldn't work but somehow did.
"How's the expo prep?" Raul asked through a mouthful of sandwich.
"Chaotic. The gallery keeps changing the layout. Mom keeps calling with 'suggestions.'" Elena used air quotes. "And I'm still two pieces behind."
"You'll finish," The Fighter said.
"Will I though?"
"You always do."
"That's not comforting. That's just stating a pattern."
Raul laughed.
"She's got you there."
Elena took a bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly.
"I've been thinking about just... not going. Canceling the whole thing."
The Fighter set his sandwich down.
"You're not serious."
"I'm a little serious."
"Elenaâ"
"I know, I know. I signed contracts. The gallery's counting on me. Mom would never forgive me." She sighed. "But the thought of standing in a room full of strangers looking at my work while they pretend to understand it just feels... exhausting."
"Then don't pretend with them," Raul said. "Just be you. Talk about the work if you want. Tell them to fuck off if you don't."
"I can't tell gallery patrons to fuck off."
"You can. You just choose not to." Raul grinned. "That's called self-control. Very mature."
Elena smiled despite herself.
"You're an idiot."
"Yeah, but I'm a supportive idiot."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while. The gym was mostly emptyâjust them and a few people on the treadmills in the back, headphones on, in their own worlds.
"I saw someone again," Elena said quietly. "Yesterday. Same car, different street."
The Fighter's jaw tightened.
"You sure?"
"No. That's the problem. I'm never sure." She set her sandwich down, appetite gone. "Maybe I'm just paranoid. Maybe I've been paranoid this whole time."
"Or maybe you're right," Raul said. "And someone's actually watching."
"That's not helpful."
"It's honest."
Elena rubbed her face with both hands.
"I just want it to stop. Whatever 'it' is. I want to make my art and live my life and not feel like I'm being documented every time I leave the house."
The Fighter put his arm around her shoulders.
"We'll figure it out."
"When?"
"I don't know. But we will."
Raul crumpled his sandwich wrapper.
"You know what you need? A break. Both of you. After the expo, we're taking a trip. Somewhere with no cameras, no crowds, no one who gives a shit about boxing or art."
"Where?" Elena asked, skeptical.
"I don't know yet. But somewhere boring. With bad wifi. And good food."
"That sounds terrible," The Fighter said.
"Exactly. It'll be perfect." Raul stood, stretching. "Now finish your sandwiches. I want to show you this weird sculpture I saw online. It's like... I don't know how to describe it. It's disturbing but I can't stop looking at it."
Elena perked up slightly.
"Send me the link."
"Already did."
She pulled out her phone, opened the link, and her expression shiftedâinterest replacing exhaustion.
"Oh. Oh, this is actually really good."
They huddled over her phone, discussing composition and technique and artistic intent while The Fighter finished his sandwich and watched them.
This was good. This was normal.
Two people he loved, talking about art, eating deli sandwiches in a gym that smelled like sweat and determination.
No press. No cameras. No performance.
Just them.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.
Whatever it was could wait.
For now, he just wanted to sit here with his sister and his best friend and pretend the world outside didn't exist.
Even if it was just for an hour.
Even if tomorrow brought more surveillance and more questions and more eyes watching.
For now, this was enough.
Raul was showing Elena another sculpture now, both of them laughing at something the artist had said in the description.
The Fighter smiled.
Yeah. This was enough.
> Chapter complete. Continue to next chapter? [Y/N] â