It had been several years since Stephen had lost his fight against Ruba, yet the weight of that night had never truly left him. Time had passed, seasons had changed, and countless fights had come and gone, but the scar left behind by that loss still lingered quietly in the background of his life.
During all those years, the relationship between Stephen and Chris had never fully healed.
They still saw each other almost every day. They still worked in the same gym. They still exchanged words when they had to. But the warmth that once existed between them, the trust, the belief, the shared dream, was gone. What remained was something colder, something hollow, like two men bound together only by routine and regret.
Chris continued to train fighters at the gym, even with his damaged leg. He moved slower now, relying on a crutch most days, his steps heavy and uneven. Age had caught up with him faster than he had expected, and the injury from that night years ago had never properly healed. Doctors had warned him that he would never regain full strength in that leg again.
The gym itself had changed as well.
There were newer trainers now, younger ones with sharper voices and quicker movements. Fighters came and went, some chasing dreams, others just trying to survive. In time, Chris had begun to realize something he had once tried hard to ignore, he was nearing the end of his career.
Sooner or later, he would have to retire.
And Stephen... Stephen would likely follow a similar path. In a few more years, once his body could no longer endure the punishment of the ring, he would probably become a trainer himself. If the journeyman jobs dried up, if the money stopped coming in, that was the most realistic future waiting for him.
But before Chris allowed himself to walk away from boxing for good, there was one thing he needed to do.
One thing he had to do.
That was why, at this very moment, Chris stood inside a large office that felt far removed from the gritty gyms he had spent his life in. The carpet beneath his feet was thick and expensive, muffling sound. The walls were polished and clean, decorated with framed posters of championship fights and smiling fighters holding golden belts.
Behind a wide desk sat a man in a pinstriped suit, a cigar resting between his fingers. Smoke curled lazily through the air, filling the room with a heavy, bitter scent. On either side of the man stood two large figures wearing black t-shirts emblazoned with the words Game Changer Promotions .
One of the biggest promotion companies in the country.
Every fighter who had ever fought under their banner had become something, champions, stars, legends. This was the place fighters dreamed of reaching. And this was also the same company that had once made an offer to Stephen all those years ago.
The man behind the desk was Kreg.
Chris bowed his head, his posture stiff with pain and desperation. His hands trembled slightly as he clenched them at his sides.
"I’m asking you," Chris said, his voice low but strained. "Please... please consider him."
Kreg leaned back in his chair, taking a slow drag from his cigar.
"Take Stephen under your wing," Chris continued. "He won’t let you down. I know his age isn’t ideal anymore, but the fire is still there. He can still win. He can still become world champion."
Kreg exhaled smoke and watched it drift toward the ceiling.
"You say he’s great," Kreg replied calmly, "but all you have is your word."
Chris didn’t lift his head.
"I can make anyone a star if I want to," Kreg went on. "There are hundreds of talented fighters out there right now. Young ones. Hungry ones. And you’re telling me I missed someone?"
He turned his laptop around so the screen faced Chris.
"Look at this record."
Chris’s eyes flickered to the screen despite himself.
Eight losses.
Two draws.
"This isn’t what people want to see," Kreg said. "Records matter. They always have. That’s why we protect them so carefully."
Chris’s fists tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"Don’t you remember who he was?" Chris said quietly. "This was the fighter you set up to face Ruba."
Kreg’s eyes narrowed slightly.
"At the time, you paid him off," Chris continued, his voice shaking. "You made sure Ruba would win. And Stephen agreed. He put up a good fight, one of the hardest Ruba ever had, but he took your price."
Chris finally lifted his head, his eyes burning.
"Since then, he’s had no choice but to live as a journeyman. You did that. And if you gave him a real chance now, just one, he would prove you wrong."
Kreg didn’t respond immediately.
"People love a comeback story," Chris pressed on. "They love an underdog. If he gets three wins in a row under your promotion, you could turn it into something big. I guarantee you wouldn’t regret it."
For the first time, Kreg fell silent.
He studied Chris carefully, tapping ash from his cigar into a crystal tray. The room felt unbearably quiet.
"Maybe," Kreg finally said. "Maybe I could take the chance."
Chris’s breath caught.
"But he’s too old now," Kreg added coldly. "No one will care. If this were years ago, maybe. But now? No."
Chris’s legs gave out.
Ignoring the pain screaming through his body, he dropped to his knees, the impact sending a sharp jolt through his injured leg. Still, he lowered his head until his forehead pressed against the floor.
"Please," Chris begged. "Just one chance."
Kreg watched without emotion.
"You can do something," Chris continued, his voice cracking. "Please... I’m begging you."
He bowed again, his head striking the floor.
"Please."
Kreg stood up abruptly.
"I’ve made my decision," he said sharply. "Leave."
Chris didn’t move.
"What are you doing?" Kreg shouted. "I told you to leave!"
"Just one chance," Chris whispered.
Kreg’s patience snapped.
He turned to the men beside him.
"If he doesn’t want to leave," Kreg said coldly, "then make sure he never walks out on his own."
The two men stepped forward.
"Break his legs."