Chiron
If someone wanted to take a boy like Lachlan and turn him into a prize, they were going to have to pry him out of my hands first.
The gym filled up by midmorning—kids practicing their footwork, a woman in her fifties grinding out pads with a coach I'd hired, the usual smell of sweat and liniment. It was the kind of noise that made plans solid. I moved through it like a man walking a familiar street: nods, a clipped instruction here and there, the small clarifications that keep bodies from breaking.
But the quiet in the office was different. It had weight. I sat down at the metal desk and opened the ledger I kept for things you don't want recorded anywhere else—names, people who owed favors, people who collected debts. I picked up the phone and started making calls.
First, to a man who ran a shipping yard on the east side—an old friend who still owed me for a favor from a fight night in Manila. He'd watched more than a few dangerous men disappear down his piers; he understood discretion. Then to an ex-manager in Chiang Mai who'd once run security for a promoter who'd tried to buy me. I didn't ask for favors. I reminded them of debts. I told them the truth: Lachlan Smith was the son of a man they'd known, and someone might try to make a business out of it.
Every callback came with the same undertone: "They'll dress it in silk." They all knew the language. They all knew the teeth behind it.
I wrote down names—three I didn't recognize, another two I did. I made space in the schedule. We'd double the surveillance at the house. I told the front desk to change the guard shifts; no one would slip in unannounced. I told Javier to give Lachlan mornings without press, afternoons with me. No surprise interviews. No off-guard appearances.
I didn't call Makii right away. I could see him in my head—older, a little worn, hands that still kept time like a metronome. He loved the boy. He feared for him. That made him soft in all the places the world liked to exploit. I'd pull him close when the time was right. First, I had to make sure we could handle whatever they brought.
A soft knock on the office door pulled me from the ledger. Lachlan walked in like he'd paused a storm on the doorstep and let it breathe. He wasn't washed clean by sleep; he carried the residue of that dream in his eyes. I saw the tightness along his jaw, the way his shoulders held themselves as if bracing for impact.
"You started without me," he said.
"I started because I don't like surprises." I gestured to the chair. "You sleep?"
"Not much." He dropped into the chair opposite me. He rubbed his ribs absently. "Dream again."
"With family?" I asked.
He shook his head. "With lines being drawn."
I pushed the ledger across. "They'll try to write a map for you, kid. Here's the thing: maps are useful for cowards. You don't need a map. You need a plan."
He smirked, half-anger, half-admiration. "You making me some sort of general now?"
"No." I tapped the ledger. "I'm making you a guard. You are the center of your life, Lach. Not some parade float. Decide where you stand and then make sure the world pays attention to that, not the other way around."
He looked at me like he wanted to argue. Instead he folded his hands and listened. That told me he was already thinking in the place where fighters live—the place where sense and violence meet.
We went over scenarios. The polite emissary who shows up to discuss "heritage." The promoter who threatens to sue if they don't get the story. The men with pockets and accents the city hadn't seen on the evening news. For each, we made a response: say no and walk away, leverage a lawyer, refuse to travel alone, get me on a plane with you if you go anywhere that smells like obligation.
When we finished, Lachlan stood. He moved like a man whose spine had been measured and reinforced overnight.
"Anything else?" he asked.
"Yeah." I retrieved an old wooden guard chain from beneath the desk, cracked and polished from years of use. I set it in his hand.
He laughed softly. "Come on. I'm not a relic."
"No." I said. "You're a promise. Keep that on your bag when you travel. It's old, but it reminds you where you came from. It reminds everyone else you're not for sale."
He put the chain around his wrist like a talisman. He didn't say the words, but I heard them all the same: I'm staying.
Outside, a courier arrived with a thick envelope. No return address. Inside was a glossy invitation stamped with a provincial seal and two lines in Thai. I read it, translated in my head before Lachlan had to. It was a tone more than a message—an offering, polite, quick to suggest that "family" wanted a visit. An attempt to lubricate a chain.
I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. "We'll reply," I said. "We'll reply when it suits us."
Lachlan's mouth tightened. He could've taken a ride to the point of no return with the flutter of a signature. He didn't sign.
That afternoon I went to see Makii. I didn't soften my voice. I didn't use platitudes. I told him plainly what would happen if the men who called themselves elders decided there was money in his son.
He listened. He insulted me with silence. Then he spoke in the low voice that had once cut through rings and crowds: "You think they'll come here?"
"They will." I put my hand on his shoulder. The man's skin was warm and ready for a fist like all good fighters are. "And if they do, they'll learn two things: that you raised a son who doesn't bend easily, and that he learned that from a man who still remembers how to break a promise."
Makii's eyes went distant. "You keep him safe."
"I will," I said. And I meant it with the kind of absolute that doesn't leave room for bargaining.
The fight that started in the ring in San Diego had already spread like a scent on the wind. Men smelled it and drew nearer. But here, in the gym with its cracked mirrors and the steady rhythm of people trying to be better than their yesterdays, I started shaping the barricades.
If they wanted to test us, they would find more than muscle. They would find a wall that remembered how to stand.