Fame is loudest when you're alone.
The locker room empties. My coach leaves with the belts, the congratulations, the cameras, and the promises. Interviews. Endorsements. Numbers. He leaves, carrying the world's applause on his shoulders. I stay behind, sitting on the cold bench, listening to the echo of the crowd leak through concrete walls. They're still chanting. They always do. Like if they stop, I'll disappear.
Xeus.
I used to love the sound of it. The first time the crowd said my name, it felt like being chosen. Like destiny tapped my shoulder and said, you. Now it feels like debt. Like something I owe and can never finish paying.
I shower, letting the water carry sweat, blood, and everything I've given the ring down the drain. The ache behind my eyes lingers, a low hum that won't shut up. Seeing — the Sight — always takes something. Tonight it took more than usual.
Outside, the hallway is crowded. Reporters swarm like flies around a carcass, their questions fast, hollow, sharpened with curiosity and expectation.
"How did you read him so easily?"
"Are you the smartest fighter in the division?"
"Is it instinct, or training?"
"What makes you different from the opponents?"
I smile, a practiced curl of the lips. I say the safe words. Hard work. My team. Thanks to my coach for his constant push and for never giving up on me when I would have. God. They nod, because they've heard it before. Truth scares people. Mystery sells better.
In the car, the city blurs past. Neon signs drip into puddles of light. Billboards scream at me, stretching my face across glass and steel. PROPHET IN THE RING, one reads. I look away.
The phone buzzes again.
You didn't answer me.
Unknown number. Same as before.
I type, then delete. Type again.
Who is this?
The reply comes immediately.
Someone who knows what you see.
My chest tightens. The ache behind my eyes sharpens like a blade finding bone. I shove the phone into my pocket, but the words echo. You think you're special. You think you're the only one.
At home, silence waits for me like a predator. My apartment — glass, chrome, bought with blood and applause — feels empty. I sit on the edge of the bed, press my palms into my eyes until colors burst behind my lids.
When I open them, I'm not in the apartment. I'm somewhere else. Somewhere smaller. Dirtier. A ring I don't recognize. The ropes sag. The canvas is frayed. Across from me stands a man I've never faced. Older, slower, tougher. And I see the punch I don't dodge.
I gasp. The vision shatters, leaving me back in my apartment. Breath ragged. Heart clawing at my ribs. My reflection stares back, too calm, too normal.
They chant my name because they think I'm invincible.
They don't know the noise has a name.
It's fear.
And it's getting louder.
I pace. The walls close in. Every light feels too bright. Every shadow is a whisper. I try to remember what it's like to fight without the Sight. To trust my hands, my instincts, my body. But the memory is hollow, fractured by years of reliance on something beyond me.
I glance at the gloves on the table. Leather cracked. Bloodstained. Waiting. I touch them lightly, fingers brushing the worn edges. They are mine. Mine to wield. Not the Sight. Not destiny. Mine.
Outside, the city hums. Life continues. The crowd moves on. Reporters publish headlines. Fans cheer for ghosts of the man they think I am. And in the quiet, I understand something terrible: the real fight isn't in the ring. It's in here. Inside the mind that doubts, the body that aches, the heart that fears.
I close my eyes. Focus. The visions flicker, but I try to ignore them. Tonight, it's not about seeing the future. It's about standing in the present, facing what's real — and preparing for the storm that's coming.
Fear isn't weakness. Fear is warning.
And I have to survive it.