Coach's knuckles cracked like tree limbs as he stared me down.
The gym was quiet except for the faint hum of the lights overhead and Aamir's panting echoing in the corner.
Blood dotted the canvas where I'd dropped him. He was still curled against the ropes, trying to remember how many fingers made a fist.
Coach didn't say a word. He just kept looking at me like he didn't recognize the thing standing in front of him.
"You done?" he finally asked.
I spat into the bucket. My knuckles were swelling again. I didn't even tape them this time. I wanted to feel the bones shift under my skin, wanted the pain to mean something.
"Yeah," I said.
He walked over to Aamir, offered a hand. Kid flinched but took it. Coach helped him up slow, whispered something I couldn't hear, then pointed toward the showers. Aamir didn't even look at me as he limped off.
I sat on the edge of the ring, breath fogging the air.
Coach didn't say anything for a long time. Just stood there, arms crossed, jaw set like stone.
"You know he's just a kid, right?" he finally said.
"Yeah."
"He looks up to you."
I snorted. "Then he's already lost."
Coach's voice hardened. "Don't do that. Don't act like you're some cautionary tale. If you didn't want to be looked up to, you should've stayed dead like you tried to be."
That cut deeper than it should've. I stood.
"You done?" I asked.
He nodded once. "I'm done trying. You think you're some ghost in gloves? Fine. But don't drag the rest of us into your grave."
I didn't answer. Just grabbed my hoodie from the bench and walked out.
---
The streets were colder than I remembered. Karachi's usual buzz was distant, like someone had turned the volume down on the city. I walked with my head low, hood up, fists in my pockets, blood still sticky between my fingers.
My phone buzzed.
**Junaid.** Again.
Third missed call today.
I unlocked it. No voicemail this time. Just a message:
**"We should talk. Before someone else does."**
I stared at the screen until it blurred, then slid it back into my pocket. The past was hungry. And it knew where I lived.
---
The apartment still smelled like damp laundry and old fights. I didn't bother turning on the lights. My body moved on autopilot — shoes off, hoodie dropped, fridge opened. Nothing inside but half a bottle of water and a rotting apple.
I sat on the floor. Back against the fridge. Head tilted back.
My ribs throbbed from earlier. Aamir had landed one clean shot, maybe two. It didn't matter. Pain was just punctuation.
I pulled out my phone again. Opened the old photos folder.
There we were — me and Khalid — outside that shitty old video store on Tariq Road. We looked stupid. Young. His arm over my shoulder. Both of us grinning like we weren't living on borrowed time.
He always smiled like that. Like he knew something I didn't.
I scrolled. More of the same. Him. Laughing. Smoking. Dancing in the rain that night we ran from the cops. Then the last one.
His face. Still. Mouth slightly open. Eyes closed.
Cold.
That photo wasn't mine. It was from the morgue. I took it from the file they gave me. I don't even know why. Some part of me needed proof he was gone.
Like I couldn't believe it otherwise.
---
Knock at the door.
I froze.
Another knock.
I stood slowly, slipped my hand under the couch where I kept the box cutter. Quiet steel. Familiar weight.
The third knock was softer. Slower.
I opened it.
"Shit, man," said a voice I hadn't heard in years. "You look worse than your fights."
**Rayyan.**
He looked the same — smug, tall, thin like a cigarette someone forgot to light. Tattoos crawling up his neck. That gold tooth still glinting every time he smiled like he owned the room.
I didn't move. Just stared.
"You gonna let me in or make me earn it?"
I stepped aside.
He walked in like he'd never left.
---
Rayyan dropped onto the couch like it was his. Picked up a stained cushion and tossed it aside.
"Place smells like regret," he said, grinning.
"What do you want?"
"Damn. No chai? No 'how've you been'? You're colder than I remember."
I stayed standing. Watching.
He sighed, leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"I saw Junaid," he said.
I didn't flinch. But my jaw tightened.
"He's not playing around this time, Malik. Word is, he's putting something together. Something big. And your name? Top of the list."
I stayed silent.
"You think fighting kids in rings is gonna protect you? You think Coach can keep you safe?"
I stepped forward, voice low. "I don't need protection."
Rayyan smiled again. But it didn't reach his eyes this time.
"You're still full of shit," he said. "But listen. I came to warn you. Whatever Junaid's cooking, it's bad. Real bad. And he's got a memory like an open wound. You hurt him once."
"He deserved it."
Rayyan nodded. "Maybe. But revenge doesn't care who deserves what."
---
He left after that. No threats. No offers. Just a warning, like a flare tossed into dry grass.
When the door shut behind him, I locked it twice.
Then I pulled out the shoebox under my bed.
Inside: old gloves, faded Polaroids, and a pistol I hadn't touched in years.
I held it in my lap.
I thought about Aamir. About his busted lip and wild eyes.
I thought about Khalid. About
what I did to Junaid.
And I thought about the word scrawled on that photo: "Soon."
Whatever was coming, it was already breathing down my neck.
---