I don't feel pain the way I used to.
It's not gone. It's just... muted. Like someone's turned the volume down on everything, and now I have to squint to even notice I'm bleeding.
This morning, I peeled off my hand wraps and found a deep purple bruise blooming between my knuckles. It wasn't from last night's fight — that was days ago. This one was new. I must've hit the bag too hard without realizing.
I pressed on it. Nothing. No reaction. My hand looked like it belonged to someone else.
Coach walked into the gym as I stood over the sink, cold water running over bone and blood. His eyes lingered on me, then moved on. He didn't say anything. He hasn't, not since the last fight.
But he's watching me more now. Like I'm a bomb he forgot wiring for.
---
The gym's quiet in the mornings. No music. No energy drinks. Just the sound of gloves hitting bags and sneakers dragging across old floors. There's a beauty to that silence. A kind of order I never got growing up.
I've been coming here since I was fifteen. Back when Khalid used to wait outside, smoking stolen cigarettes, telling me to hit harder. Back when the world still had rules, like: if you work hard, you make it out.
Now I know better. Now I know some people don't make it out. Some people stay in the hole and claw at the dirt, and when they get tired, they get buried in it.
---
There's a new kid at the gym. Scrawny. Angry. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. He's got that look in his eyes — the same one I had the first time I stepped into this place. Like he's got something to prove, and he doesn't care if it kills him.
His name's **Aamir**.
I watch him in the corner of my eye, hitting the bag with wild, reckless energy. No footwork. No rhythm. Just raw power and rage. He's been coming in every day, twice a day. Doesn't talk to anyone. Doesn't smile.
Coach nods toward him as we wrap up drills.
"You see yourself in him?" he asks.
I glance over. "No."
Coach smirks. "Liar."
I want to say something smart, but I don't. Because he's right. And I hate that.
---
That night, I'm back in my apartment — cracked walls, busted heater, fridge humming like it's dying slow. I stare at the ceiling for an hour before realizing I've been holding my phone the entire time.
Three missed calls from the same number.
No name. Just digits.
I know who it is.
I should block it. I don't.
Instead, I play the voicemail.
A man's voice. Slow. Calm. A little too calm.
> "You still ignoring ghosts, Malik? Thought so. Call me. Before I have to come find you."
Click.
I throw the phone across the room and it hits the wall with a dull thud. Doesn't even break.
---
The next morning, I see Aamir again. He's got a busted lip and a swollen eye. Must've sparred with someone who doesn't give a shit about weight class.
He doesn't complain. Just tapes up and gets back to work.
I walk over. He doesn't notice until I'm standing right in front of him.
"You're dropping your right every time you jab," I say.
He freezes. Looks at me like I just punched him.
"I'm not—"
"You are," I cut in. "You drop it. Guy like me would eat you alive."
A beat. Then: "Then maybe I need to fight someone like you."
Bold. Stupid. Brave.
I nod once. "Maybe."
---
Coach watches the whole exchange. Later, while I'm hitting the pads, he says:
"You training him now?"
"No."
"You mentoring him?"
"No."
"You see your brother in him?"
I don't respond.
Coach keeps his eyes on me. "You can lie to me. But stop lying to yourself."
I hit the pad harder. My glove splits at the seam.
---
That night, I feel it again — that tightness in my chest. Not fear. Not grief.
Something worse.
Recognition.
The man who left the voicemail is **Junaid**. We grew up in the same street. Fought the same fights. Took the same beatings. But where I took my fists into the ring, he took his into darker places. Places with no rules.
We haven't spoken in five years. Last time I saw him was at Khalid's funeral.
He didn't cry. Just stood at the back of the crowd, hands in his pockets, like he was waiting for something.
Now he's calling.
Which means he wants something.
And whatever it is… it won't be good.
---
The next day, Aamir asks me to spar.
"You sure?" I ask.
He nods. "I want to learn."
I step into the ring with him. The whole gym watches.
Coach sighs like he's already regretting it.
We circle.
I don't hit him hard — not at first. Just test his movement, footwork, his tells.
He lunges too much. Leads with his chin. Doesn't tuck his shoulder.
But he's got heart. And heart's the one thing you can't teach.
Halfway through the second round, he clips me. Nothing major — just a glancing shot — but it pisses me off.
So I return the favor.
One clean shot to the ribs. Not enough to break. Just enough to teach.
He stumbles back, gasps, but stays on his feet.
That earns my respect.
When we're done, he leans against the ropes, panting.
"You held back," he says.
"Yeah."
"You won't next time?"
"No."
He nods. Wipes blood from his lip. Smiles, just barely.
He's gonna be a problem one day.
---
That night, I get home and there's an envelope under my door.
No name. No stamp.
Just my name in thick black marker.
Inside: a photo of me from two days ago. Leaving the gym. Caught mid-step.
Whoever took it was close.
Too close.
On the back of the photo, one word:
**"Soon."**
---
I sit in the dark for hours, staring at the photo.
I don't call anyone. Don't move.
Eventually, I grab my wraps. Head out into the night.
Back to the gym.
Back to the bag.
Because when the world starts closing in, I don't run.
I hit.
And I don't stop until everything — the fear, the ghosts, the guilt — is gone.
Or until my hands break trying.