Lachlan
The smell of coffee hit first. Bitter. Burnt. Exactly how Chiron liked it. I followed it downstairs, each step slower than the last, my ribs still sore, my mind still caught halfway between the dream and the damn heat of that old ring.
He was where he always was—back corner office, door cracked open, light cutting a slice through the dark hallway. The gym was quiet. No kids yet. No yelling. Just the creak of my footsteps and the soft clink of his spoon against his mug.
I stood in the doorway.
Chiron didn't look up. Didn't need to.
"You're up early," he said. Voice low. Steady. Like granite. "Or didn't sleep?"
I stepped inside, closed the door. "Didn't sleep."
He nodded once. Stirred the coffee again. Let it settle.
"I had a dream." I sat down across from him, wood chair groaning under my weight. "Thailand."
That made him pause. Barely. But I caught it.
Chiron didn't ask questions unless he had to. He just let the silence breathe long enough for you to start bleeding on your own.
"They were watching me," I said. "The family. People I've never met, but I knew who they were. One said I'd bring honor back. Another told someone to 'call me home.'"
Chiron leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked. His mug stayed in his hand like it belonged there.
"Sounds like your father's side is waking up," he said.
I blinked. "You knew this would happen?"
"I've been waiting for it." He didn't flinch. "You don't fight like someone who just trained here. It's in your blood, Lach. I've always known that. And trust me—so do they."
I felt something twist in my stomach. Not fear. Not quite. Closer to dread.
"I don't want what they're offering. I'm not looking to be part of some legacy they ignored until it was convenient."
"They don't care what you want," Chiron said, setting the mug down gently. "They care what you are. What you could be for them. A fighter in the west with Thai blood? With eyes like a demon and a record that won't crack?"
He met my eyes.
"They'll dress it up like heritage. But they're just hungry, Lach. Hungry people take."
I nodded. Swallowed. "My dad's scared."
"Good. He should be."
That surprised me.
Chiron rarely gave emotion credit. To him, feelings were distractions. Leverage for your opponent. Weakness in a fight. But this wasn't about the fight.
Not the one in the ring, anyway.
"What do I do?" I asked.
Chiron sat forward. His arms folded on the table, voice dropping low.
"You make a decision," he said. "Right now. Before they call. Before the whispers get louder. You decide who you fight for—and who you don't."
The words sat heavy between us.
I looked at my hands. Still bruised from the fight. Still scarred from years before that.
"I fight for me," I said. "For the people who stood with me when I had nothing. Not for ghosts. Not for bloodlines that forgot me."
Chiron nodded, slow.
"Then start acting like it."
"What does that mean?"
He stood up. Cracked his neck. Walked over to the window, where the first light was creeping through the city haze.
"It means if they come—when they come—you don't flinch. You don't bow. You don't pick up the phone and think maybe they've changed."
He looked back at me, eyes cold, clear.
"You lace your gloves. You stay in your weight. You beat everyone they throw your name at. And when the world begs you to play the prince of Thailand?"
He smiled. Barely.
"You show 'em what happens when a ghost writes his own damn legend."