It didn't start in a ring.
People always assume it did—like the power was born from sweat and ropes and the sound of gloves cracking against skin. Like it rose naturally from discipline. That would've been easier to explain.
The first time I saw the future, I wasn't famous.
I was seventeen, skinny, angry, and convinced the world owed me something it refused to pay.
The gym back then was a converted warehouse with a leaking roof and a floor that smelled permanently of rust and old blood. No cameras. No sponsors. Just boys trying to punch their way out of poverty. I belonged there. Pain made sense to me.
Coach Musa used to say boxing didn't make men violent—it gave violence somewhere to go. I believed him.
That afternoon, I stayed late. Everyone else had cleared out, chasing girlfriends or buses home. I wrapped my hands too tight, like I was afraid my fists might escape. I remember being angry for no clear reason. Angry at hunger. Angry at my name. Angry at God.
The sparring partner was a last-minute fill-in. Bigger than me. Older. He smiled too much.
"Light work," he said.
The bell rang.
The first punch came out of nowhere.
Except it didn't.
A second before it landed, the world… slowed. Not like a movie. Not dramatic. Just enough for something inside my head to open. I saw his shoulder roll. The angle of his elbow. The ugly intention behind the glove.
I moved.
The punch missed by inches.
The gym froze.
I didn't understand what had happened. Neither did he. He swung again, harder this time. And again—before his glove even twitched, I knew where it would go. My body obeyed without asking questions.
I was laughing by the third dodge.
That was my mistake.
Confidence is louder than fear, and it attracts punishment.
The vision hit too late. A fraction of a second off. His hook smashed into my jaw, white light exploding behind my eyes. I tasted metal. The floor rushed up to meet me.
I woke up to Coach Musa's voice and the ceiling spinning slowly, like it was disappointed in me.
"Don't chase what you don't understand," he said quietly.
I tried to ask him what he meant, but my mouth wouldn't cooperate. Blood dripped onto my chest.
That night, the dreams started.
I saw punches thrown days before they happened. Accidents. Arguments. A broken bottle before it shattered. Every vision came with the same ache behind my eyes, the same exhaustion, the same feeling of something being taken.
I prayed.
Nothing stopped.
I stopped praying.The gym became my refuge and my test lab. I learned patterns. Timing. Limits. The Sight didn't show me everything—only violence, only moments where intent sharpened into action. It fed on conflict.
By eighteen, I was untouchable.
By nineteen, people started calling me gifted.
By twenty, they called me dangerous.
No one ever asked what it cost.
Back in the present, I sit on the edge of my bed, the memory pressing against my ribs. The ache behind my eyes returns, familiar and unwelcome. The phone lies face down on the table, silent but heavy with threat.
Someone else knows.
That's the part I never saw coming.
If the Sight was a gift, it had chosen to reveal its price late.
And like all debts, it was coming to collect.