Lachlan
The arena definitely had more people, the low hum of anticipation vibrating through the air, thick with the stench of sweat and the buzz of thousands of people whispering about the fight that was about to unfold. My pulse thrummed in my ears, and the buzz of the crowd felt distant, like it was coming from another world. I stood in the locker room, staring at myself in the mirror, my reflection, a reminder of how far I'd come since that day in the gym—when I stopped pretending.
Two months had passed since then. Two months of pushing my body beyond limits I didn't know I had. Two months of focusing on nothing but the pain, the brutality, the endless grind. But tonight, it wasn't just about the fight. It wasn't just about winning. It was about the rage, the fury that had been building inside me, fed by everything—my past, my family, the weight of all the shit that had been shoved down my throat for years. Tonight, I wasn't just fighting a man. I was fighting everything.
Chiron was standing beside me, his face stern, as usual. He didn't say anything, but I could feel the weight of his eyes on me, steady and unblinking. His hands were clasped in front of him, his presence grounding. He had been with me through every brutal training session, every moment when I almost gave up on myself. Tonight, he was the only thing keeping me tethered to this world.
"You know what to do," he said, his voice low but sharp. "Don't let the rage consume you. Use it. Control it."
I nodded, but I wasn't really hearing him. I wasn't thinking about control. I didn't want control anymore. I wanted to burn. I wanted to inflict the pain that others had inflicted on me.
The walk to the octagon was a blur, the roar of the crowd fading into nothing. The only thing that mattered was the steel cage in front of me, the floor beneath my boots. The smell of blood, sweat, and steel. The one place where I could let all the darkness inside me free without worrying about the consequences.
I climbed into the cage, the door slamming shut behind me. My opponent, a bigger guy than me, was already standing on the other side, bouncing on his toes, sizing me up. He wasn't shaking like I was, but I knew that look. He was thinking the same thing as every other opponent I'd faced. He thought he had me figured out. But what he didn't know was that I wasn't the same guy he'd seen on the tapes.
The bell rang, and before I could even think, I was on him.
My fists flew like they had a mind of their own. Left hook. Right cross. Uppercut. I didn't even hear the sound of my knuckles hitting his face, the crack of his jaw snapping back as I drove my fist into him again and again. His guard was up, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Not the crowd. Not the pain. Not the rules. I wanted him to feel everything I had felt—the isolation, the rage, the fury that had built up inside me like a beast I couldn't control.
He staggered back, a look of shock in his eyes. But I wasn't done. I didn't want to be done. I wanted to rip him apart. His blood was already staining the canvas beneath us, a deep red contrast against the white floor. His nose was broken, a river of blood pouring down his face, but that wasn't enough for me.
He tried to swing back, a desperate haymaker aimed at my head, but I saw it coming. I ducked under it, moved in close, and slammed my knee into his ribs. The sound was sickening, like a snap of wood under pressure, and he gasped for air. The pain hit him immediately, but it didn't stop him from fighting back.
The crowd roared, but all I could hear was the thud of our bodies colliding, the sickening noise of flesh against bone. His breath came in sharp gasps, but his eyes were wild with panic now, the realization dawning that he was outmatched. I wasn't just here to win anymore. I was here to burn him.
I grabbed his head, pulled him toward me, and drove an elbow into the side of his skull. The crack echoed in the arena, and his body went limp for a moment, his knees buckling beneath him.
And then something inside me snapped.
It was no longer about the fight. It wasn't about victory. It was about unleashing. My fists kept coming, faster, harder. Each blow was a surge of fury, each one a piece of the rage I'd been burying deep inside for so long. His blood spattered against the canvas, the cage, my face, but I didn't care. I wanted it. I needed it.
I wanted him to feel what it was like to be trapped, to be helpless, to be broken.
He tried to curl into a defensive position, but I wouldn't let him. I pulled him up, punched him in the gut with all the force I could muster, and heard his air leave him in a sickening wheeze. But I wasn't done. Not yet.
His body slumped again, his arms dangling like dead weight. I could feel my own blood pumping in my ears, my vision sharp, focused on nothing but him. I stepped back for a moment, breathing heavily, but when I looked at his face, I saw nothing. His eyes were glazed over, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream. He was done.
But I wasn't. I wasn't finished.
I grabbed his head again, lifting it just enough for the next blow. I looked down at him, saw the fear in his eyes, and it only fueled the fire inside me.
With one last, savage motion, I threw my fist down into his face. His skull cracked beneath the force, the sound like a crunching of dry leaves in the fall. And then his body went limp, collapsing into a heap on the mat.
The bell rang. The crowd was a blur of noise around me, but I couldn't hear them. I couldn't hear anything except my own breath, harsh and ragged.
I stood over him for a moment, my chest heaving, my body alive with the aftermath of the rage. The referee stepped in, calling the fight, but I couldn't look away from him. From the broken body in front of me.
Ria's face flashed in my mind as I wiped the blood off my hands. She had been there—somewhere in the crowd—but I couldn't bring myself to look for her. Not now. Not with the storm still raging inside of me.
But she would have seen it. She would have seen the fury I had let loose, and I wasn't sure if that was something she could handle.
I wasn't sure if I could handle it.
But tonight, it didn't matter. Tonight, I was alive.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, like a tidal wave crashing over me. It rattled my bones, pulsed in my veins, but I couldn't hear it. Not really. My mind was too far away, lost in the haze of the fight, in the heat of the rage that still burned beneath my skin.
I stumbled toward my corner, every step heavy with the weight of what I had just done. Blood caked my fists, my face, the stains on my clothes. But there was a strange emptiness inside of me. The surge of power, the flood of rage—it had consumed everything in me, and now that it was gone, I felt hollow. Like something crucial had slipped away in the heat of the fight, and I wasn't sure what was left.
Chiron was already there, his hands outstretched, reaching for the towel to wipe my face. His expression was as unreadable as always, but there was something behind his eyes, something I couldn't name. His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than it should have, and I felt the weight of it, like he was trying to make sense of what had just happened.
"You did good," he said, his voice steady, but there was an edge to it. A caution. "But you lost control. That wasn't just a fight, Lachlan. That was a bloodbath."
I met his eyes, but I didn't respond. The words didn't matter. Nothing did. All I could think about was how easy it had been to let go, how freeing it felt to let that rage pour out of me. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just power—and I'd never felt anything like it before.
But Chiron was right. I had lost control. I had let it consume me, and it had taken me to places I wasn't sure I could return from.
"Take a breath, Lachlan," Chiron continued, his hand on my shoulder now, firm, grounding. "You're a damn force when you focus. But if you let that rage take you every time… you'll end up like your opponent. Broken. And you won't even see it coming."
I looked down at my bloodied fists, the remnants of the fight clinging to me, and for the first time, I wondered if I was already too far gone.
I'd started this journey to help myself, but now I wasn't so sure. I had ripped that man apart—and for what? To prove something to myself? To feed the fury inside me?
I glanced toward the other side of the octagon, where the paramedics were already hovering over my opponent, working on him, trying to revive him. He was out cold, and I couldn't help but wonder if I'd gone too far. If I had broken him beyond repair.
The thought should have unsettled me, should have made me feel something. But instead, I felt numb.
Chiron must have sensed it because he didn't push any further. Instead, he handed me a water bottle and gave me a nod. "Get cleaned up. You're done here."
I took the bottle and drank deeply, my throat dry, my hands still shaking slightly. I felt… out of place. Like something inside of me was misaligned, spinning out of control.
My mind flashed again, to her—Ria.
She had been in the crowd. I knew that much. I could see her face, those eyes, her body tense with every punch, every blow. She had watched the fight. She had seen the destruction I had unleashed.
And a part of me wondered what she thought of me now.
But it wasn't the part of me that cared. It wasn't the part that still had some semblance of control. It was the part that had tasted blood, the part that didn't know how to stop once it had started.
I stood there for a moment, feeling the coolness of the sweat on my skin, the blood drying on my chest. I wanted to get out of here, wanted to escape the suffocating weight of what I had just done, the way the crowd's cheers still echoed in my skull.
But I couldn't leave yet.
As I turned to leave the cage, I caught sight of her.
Ria.
She was standing near the edge of the arena, her eyes locked on mine, her posture stiff, but there was something in the way she looked at me. Something darker than I remembered, something fierce, almost… obsessive. She wasn't just watching me as a fan or an observer anymore. She was studying me. Like I was a piece of prey, something she couldn't look away from, even if she knew it would consume her.
I could feel her presence like a pull, like gravity drawing me toward her. But there was something cold in that stare. Something hard and unforgiving.
And for the first time, I felt a twinge of fear.
I walked toward the exit, not daring to glance back at her. But I could feel her eyes on me as if she was following me, a shadow in the crowd.
Chiron was there again, guiding me toward the locker room. "You need to rest, Lachlan," he said, his voice low, but there was concern there now. "You've done what you came to do. But don't let it take you."
I didn't respond. I didn't know how to. I was too busy thinking about her.
Ria. I wanted to ignore it. I wanted to tell myself that her gaze didn't matter, that I didn't care how she saw me. But the truth was, I had no idea what she saw anymore.
Maybe I didn't want to know.
The adrenaline was still rushing through me, and I could feel the rawness of the fight in my limbs. My body was bruised, but nothing hurt more than the silence in my head. I was empty.
The only thing I knew for sure was that I couldn't go back to the man I was before. And I wasn't sure if I wanted to.
But I couldn't keep snapping like this either. The rage. The darkness. The hollow feeling inside me, gnawing at me like a hunger I couldn't feed.
I wanted to scream, to hit something, but I didn't, I liked the hunger. I just didn't know what to think. How to handle it.
And when I finally made it to the locker room, I shut the door behind me, locking myself inside. I leaned against the cold wall, breathing hard, my chest heaving with the aftershock of the fight.
What the hell am I becoming?
I couldn't answer.
Am I becoming someone or returning to a deeper me?