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This chapter contains themes of depression, suicidal thoughts, and self-harm. It portrays the emotional and mental struggles of a character following a traumatic fall from grace.
If you're struggling with similar feelings, please know you're not alone. There are people who care about you and want to help.
You can talk to someone friends, family, or professionals. If you're in crisis, please reach out to a mental health service or helpline in your country.
Your life matters.
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Rukon had always been a fighter.
Born in the mid-sprawl of a working-class Bangkok neighborhood, he'd grown up with noise motorbikes rattling down narrow streets, dogs barking at ghosts, and neighbors arguing over television volume. But under that chaos lived something quieter: a dream.
He was ten when he saw his first Muay Thai match, standing on tiptoes outside a run-down stadium, peering over rusted rails just to get a glimpse. The fighters had moved like they were born for it. Their strikes were poetry, their grit divine. One of them, "the Muay Thai Strongest", had won with a final elbow that sounded like bone cracking through wood. The crowd had roared. Rukon didn't just cheer. He vowed.
That night, he practiced knees on his mattress. That night, he knew what he'd become.
Now, a little over a decade later, here he was.
Standing in the ring. Championship bout. Title on the line.
The ropes smelled like sweat and glory. The air pulsed with roaring voices. Cameras clicked. Announcers screamed. Across the ring stood his opponent: Daokan "Steel Jaw" Wichai, undefeated, a veteran of over fifty fights. But Rukon wasn't afraid. Not anymore. Not after clawing through blood, injury, ridicule, and hunger just to get here.
The bell rang.
Steel Jaw came fast, a low feint into a sharp right elbow, testing Rukon's guard. Rukon blocked, barely, the shockwave rattling down his arm. But he smiled. This is what he lived for.
The first two rounds were brutal. Rukon took hits. His ribs screamed. But in Round Three, he found his rhythm. He started landing clean. A low kick that staggered Wichai. A spinning elbow that grazed his temple. Sweat flew like rain. The arena pulsed louder.
Round Four, Rukon leapt. Literally leapt knee aimed for Wichai's face.
Impact.
The crowd gasped, then exploded.
Wichai crumpled. Rukon didn't even hear the count. He was in the air, above the world, floating in the dream he had carved from asphalt and aching knuckles.
He was now the Muay Thai Strongest.
But that dream lasted exactly four hours.
He was still drenched in sweat when a man from the committee came into his locker room. Didn't knock. Just entered with two officers behind him.
"Rukon Wattanachai," the man said, flatly, "you've failed the anti-doping test."
Rukon blinked. "What?"
"We found a banned substance in your urine."
"That's not—I don't use anything."
They didn't argue. They just pointed to his locker. Someone had already opened it.
There it was. A small black pack. Inside, syringes. Vials.
Rukon's breath caught. "I've never—what the hell is that?! That's not mine! Somebody might have placed it."
They looked at him like he'd said nothing at all.
The fall was fast. Faster than any punch he'd ever taken.
Disqualified. Title revoked. Headlines blazed across Thai and international media. "Rukon: Cheat or Tragedy?"He was dragged through every news channel, every YouTube podcast, every gossip forum. No one cared about his denials. The footage of the pack. The test. The image of him collapsed in the ring, hand over his heart that's what they all used.
He didn't sleep. He stopped eating. Calls from his gym went unanswered. His name was removed from the fight posters. Sponsorships pulled out within the week. The gym replaced him with a rising 19-year-old they said was "cleaner and more focused."
And now?
Now he was in a room that smelled like dust, socks, and stale curry.
The wallpaper peeled like dead skin. The fan above barely moved. Piles of unwashed clothes made hills around his mattress. He hadn't trained in weeks. He hadn't talked to anyone in days.
He hadn't looked in a mirror in months.
His only refuge that he found his hell of a world? Anime. Escape.
Late at night, he'd lie on his back and binge old Naruto episodes. Not for Naruto himself but for Hinata.
She was quiet. Always watching. People ignored her. Underestimated her. But she didn't flinch. She trained. She waited. And when it mattered, she stepped forward. She bled for what she loved.
She reminded him of who he thought he was. And who he wanted to be.
That night, he passed out on his mattress. TV still playing. In his dream, he was back in the ring. His name being announced. The cheers were thunderous.
Then a sharp voice cut through.
"...due to the banned substance discovered in his locker…"
He snapped awake. It wasn't a dream.
It was the TV.
They were playing a segment about his scandal. Again.
He stared at the screen. It was his face. Sweat-soaked, victorious. Then his locker. Then the black bag.
He screamed.
He reached for something—anything—and his hand landed on an empty beer bottle. It sailed across the room, shattering against the wall-mounted screen.
Glass scattered like snow.
He didn't get up. Just lay there. Breathing like he'd run ten kilometers. His heart wasn't racing, it was breaking.
The thoughts had come before. Quietly. Then louder. They wrapped around his ribs, coiled in his lungs.
First time, he stood on the edge of his building. Eighth floor. Wind cold on his face.
But he'd chickened out. Said it wasn't the right day.
Second time, he'd bought pills. Poured them into a bowl like cereal. Sat staring at it for an hour. Ended up flushing it all away.
But the third time…
The third time felt easy.
No drama. No preparation. Just a box cutter. Just warm water. Just silence.
He sat on the edge of the tub. The house empty. The city too loud outside to care.
He didn't cry. There were no tears left. He just looked at his hands, the same hands that had trained, punched, blocked, won and saw nothing left in them.
He pressed the blade to his wrist. He didn't hesitate this time.
It was warm. Sharp. Final.
As the blood slid down, slow and rich, he leaned back.
His last thought wasn't about the title. Or the fans. Or the locker.
It was about Hinata. About her soft voice. About how she had survived. And how he hadn't.
The lights dimmed. His breath shallowed. No applause. No ten-count. No ref.
Just the end. He who should been the undefeated Muay Thai fighter. He lay there - unmoving.
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Fun fact: Rukon is a Reformist.
A/N: So, How was the OC Life before SI. Would love to hear your thoughts?
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