When Stephen turned up for training that morning, everything seemed normal on the surface. He followed the same routine he had repeated for years, one that had become second nature to him. He wrapped his hands carefully, feeling the familiar tightness of the tape around his knuckles, then stepped into the ring without hesitation. Sparring began as usual. He moved, blocked, dodged, and struck, making sure his body stayed sharp and responsive. His muscles reacted well, his breathing was steady, and his timing was intact.
Yet despite all of that, something felt off.
It wasn’t physical. His body wasn’t sluggish, and nothing hurt more than it usually did. It was a feeling deeper than that, something sitting in the back of his mind that refused to fade no matter how many rounds he went through. Stephen tried to ignore it at first, pushing himself harder in sparring, increasing the pace, forcing his thoughts to focus on footwork and timing instead. Still, the feeling lingered, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
Eventually, he realized what it was.
Chris wasn’t there.
Stephen hadn’t noticed it at first because he was so used to seeing him every day. Chris was always around, leaning against the ropes, watching quietly, correcting small mistakes, or simply observing in silence. Even when they weren’t speaking, his presence was something Stephen had unconsciously come to expect.
As Stephen finished one of his sparring sessions and stepped out of the ring, wiping the sweat from his face, he looked around the gym more carefully this time. He scanned the familiar corners, the benches, the bags hanging from the ceiling. Chris was nowhere to be seen.
That was when the unease in his chest grew stronger.
As he headed toward the edge of the gym, Stephen couldn’t stop himself from asking one of the coaches who was organizing equipment nearby.
"Hey, where is Chris?" Stephen asked.
The coach paused, clearly surprised by the question. "Not sure," he replied. "He said he needed to do something last night, but I haven’t seen him all morning. I tried calling him, but he didn’t get back. Maybe he just had a rough night or something."
Stephen frowned.
"He didn’t even contact you, and you weren’t concerned?" Stephen asked. "Did you drop by his house?"
The coach hesitated, caught off guard by Stephen’s tone. Everyone at the club knew about the tension between Stephen and Chris. They barely spoke anymore, and most assumed Stephen didn’t care.
"I mean... he’s an adult," the coach said carefully. "If it was a couple of days, then I’d be worried."
Stephen’s eyes hardened.
"Right," he said sharply. "But Chris has never missed a single day of training at this club. Not once. And now he doesn’t even inform you, and you haven’t checked on him? How useless are you?"
Before the coach could respond, Stephen stormed off, already pulling his wraps loose as he walked. His irritation wasn’t just directed at the coach. It was aimed at himself as well. He hated that he hadn’t noticed Chris’s absence sooner.
Heading out of the gym, Stephen quickly pulled out his phone. His contact list wasn’t long. He rarely called anyone these days. He scrolled for a moment before finding Chris’s name. His thumb hovered over the call button.
Then it stopped.
’Even if I call him,’ Stephen thought, ’I doubt he’ll pick up. If he didn’t answer anyone else, why would he answer me?’
With that thought in mind, Stephen made a decision. If Chris wouldn’t come to him, then he would go to Chris.
The first place Stephen headed to was Chris’s home.
Chris lived in an old apartment block, one that looked like it had been forgotten by the rest of the city. The building was designed in a strange, tube-like shape, its structure curving inward toward a shared garden space at the center. The concrete walls were stained, and the paint had long since begun to peel away. Clothes hung from railings above, swaying slightly in the breeze, and patches of mold crept along the walls where moisture had settled.
It was run down, just like the gym in many ways.
Despite having founded the gym and owning it, Chris had poured nearly all of his money back into keeping it running. Paying staff, maintaining equipment, and keeping the doors open had always taken priority over his own comfort. The gym wasn’t famous. It didn’t produce world-class champions anymore. It was mostly a place for middle- to low-level fighters, and whenever someone showed real promise, bigger organizations would snatch them away before anything meaningful could happen.
Stephen had always known this.
When he reached Chris’s apartment, his steps slowed.
Standing just outside the door was a police officer.
Stephen’s heart sank immediately.
"What’s going on?" Stephen asked, his voice tense.
The police officer explained that they were there to investigate a few things. There was only one officer present, which told Stephen enough on its own. This wasn’t being treated as a high-priority case.
Apparently, Chris had been found injured and left on the side of the street. He had been rushed to the hospital and undergone emergency surgery due to how badly his bones had been shattered.
The officer didn’t explain everything in detail. They mentioned that Chris wasn’t talking and that they were still trying to gather information. The only things they could tell Stephen were where Chris had been found and which hospital he had been taken to.
That was all Stephen needed to hear.
He rushed to the hospital without another word.
When Stephen arrived, Chris was already out of surgery, which meant visitors were allowed. As Stephen walked through the hallways, the sterile smell of disinfectant filled his nose, and the sound of distant monitors echoed softly in the background.
When he entered Chris’s room, his chest tightened.
Chris was unconscious, lying still on the hospital bed. Both of his legs were heavily bandaged and casted, wrapped thickly in white. He couldn’t move them. Tubes ran from his arms, and machines beeped quietly beside him.
Stephen stood there for a moment, unable to say anything.
"I can’t even ask you what happened..." Stephen thought as he stepped closer to the bed.
He looked at Chris’s face, pale and worn, and shook his head slightly.
"Even with a bad leg, I doubt there would be much that could take you on," Stephen muttered quietly. "Although... you have been getting old."
The words carried a bitterness Stephen hadn’t intended.
As he waited, Stephen began to look around the room. His eyes drifted toward the corner, where Chris’s coat was hanging. It was dirty, far dirtier than it should have been, almost as if it had been dragged across the ground.
"How did it manage to get so dirty?" Stephen murmured. "Did you fall down a hill or something?"
He stepped closer and brushed his hand against the fabric, trying to shake off some of the dirt. That was when his fingers felt something solid inside one of the pockets.
Stephen hesitated.
Normally, he wouldn’t snoop. But given the situation, he decided to take a look. He reached inside the pocket and pulled out a small leaflet.
"Game Changer Promotions..." Stephen read slowly.
His expression changed instantly.
He knew exactly who they were.
Stephen turned back toward Chris, his hand tightening around the leaflet. His chest felt heavy, and his breathing grew uneven. Everything started to make sense.
When he looked at Chris again, his composure finally broke. His shoulders sagged, and he clenched his fist as emotions he had buried for years surged to the surface.
"I wanted to be awake when you woke up, Chris," Stephen said quietly, his voice shaking. "So you didn’t feel like there was no one by your side."
He straightened up, resolve replacing the shock in his eyes.
"But I think I have a better gift I can give you."
Stephen turned toward the door, already knowing what he had to do next.