I had been a boxer all throughout school. After two years of MMA, I was trying to go pro. I was 19, training at the gym like usual.
Just another day — at least that's what I thought.
I can't even recall how I fought that day, but I know I was one of the best back then. Coach used to bring in MMA fighters from other places just to spar with me — but none of them ever lasted more than two minutes.
Sometimes he'd tell me to go easy, let it stretch a little so we both learned something. But honestly, I didn't get much out of those fights. Most of them were too weak. If I held my punches, I'd never get strong enough to make it pro.
Eventually, these matches started attracting people. Crowds showed up. Fights happened once or twice a week. I still preferred the training days, though — that's when I could let everything loose, especially when my sparring partner had shields on. No holding back.
The gym grew because of it too. More members, more noise.
That day, I knocked my opponent out within the first minute. The crowd exploded. Noise everywhere. Honestly, I felt like calling out everyone in that room just to make the fight worth it. Some of those so-called seasoned fighters didn't even understand the basics — missing their angles, telegraphing their shots. Watching pro fights taught me more than beating them ever did.
Then, through all that shouting, I heard a voice. Light, almost buried under the noise — but it caught me off guard.
"Was that the Glaive Step?"
I turned, searching for where it came from.
And there he was — a young boy, standing near the edge of the ring. Black t-shirt. Fingerless workout gloves. He didn't look like a random visitor. Maybe a regular? But what really struck me was the name he said.
Glaive Step.
I asked him, "What do you know about Glaive Step?"
He looked right at me. "Not much. I've been watching you do it for the past few weeks. Tried looking it up — videos, forums, nothing. But yesterday, I found this old fighting clip. There was a comment under it saying, 'That move's called the Glaive Step.' That's all I know."
That threw me off.
The Glaive Step isn't some technique you find online. Hell, no one in this gym even knows what it is. It's not in manuals, not in tutorials. Just a move I've kept buried — my edge, the one thing that sets me apart.
Some fighters — back in their early days — had stuff like that. Secret tricks. Untitled techniques they used to get a step ahead. Since no one could name them, no one could prep a counter. That's how a few of them managed to break through and hit the pro scene.
But once you're in the spotlight, once the cameras start rolling — someone will figure your move out. They'll give it a name, share it, break it down. And once that happens? It's over. That move won't save you anymore.
The Glaive Step was that move for me.
And this kid — this random kid — just dropped the name like it was nothing.
"So you know the name?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "Anything else?"
His eyes lit up. "Can you teach me?"
That caught me off guard.
"You into MMA?"
He smiled. "No. I'm a boxer. I've got competitions coming up… Thought maybe learning something like that could help."
I stared at him. I saw it — the same fire I used to have. He reminded me of myself. Middle schooler. Just starting out. Determined.
"You're not ready for those kinds of moves yet," I said. "But maybe I can give you some tips. You said you're a boxer, right? Then stick around. Once the place clears out, I'll show you something."
He didn't even blink. "I'll wait. Even if it takes hours."
That's where it started.
It really did take hours for the crowd to thin. Most of the people left, except a few sparring groups. I found him again near the back.
I gave him a few tips — footwork, timing, spacing. Then I watched him shadowbox in the ring for a solid five minutes, nonstop.
I was impressed. His footwork? Insane. His rhythm? Clean. For a middle schooler, he was miles ahead of where I had been at that age.
From there on, things moved fast. We didn't plan it, but a sort of mentor-mentee rhythm built between us. He kept showing up at the gym—always sharp, always serious. And with each session, he got better. He started making waves in the championships. His name started floating around — "The Eastridge Prodigy."
He even started knocking out older boys. It reminded me of my own middle school days. I was a boxer too, and older guys used to pick on me — but I always asked for a fair 1v1. If they lost, that was that.
But this kid was different. He didn't ask for anything. If someone picked a fight, he just went at them — all of them — no matter how many. He didn't hold back.
Strangely, I didn't feel bad. If anything, it made me think about something I might've missed back then.
He already had a good sense of footwork, spacing, when to move — and with the little I taught him, he was ahead of most kids his age. Honestly, I always knew he was going to be great.
And then came that day.
He brought someone with him — a much younger kid, maybe three or four years below him. Small, quiet, sitting on a chair too big for him, legs swinging in the air. He was watching the gym like it was a movie screen. Pure awe in his eyes.
I had already finished my own training and the session with the boy, and while he was sparring in the ring, I walked over to the little guy and crouched down on the floor beside him.
"What's your name?" I asked.
He looked surprised, a little scared. His face showed it. Voice low, he said,"Ashley."
"Oh! Ashley — pretty good name. So is that guy in the ring your brother?"
He nodded quickly, eyes lighting up. "Yes! That's my big brother!"
I smiled. "So… do you like boxing too?"
But as he nodded, his eyes dropped. His lips pressed forward, like he was trying not to cry.
"What's wrong?" I asked gently.
"Yeah, I like boxing… I always ask to come watch him. But he never lets me. He tells Mom not to bring me."
"Don't worry," I said. "If your mother's okay with it, you can always come. I'll teach you."
He shook his head. "It's not about Mom. It's my brother. He doesn't like me."
I paused. "Hey, I don't think that's true."
"It is," he said quietly. "I've tried coming with him so many times. But he keeps telling Mom no. She tells him to bring me, just once, just let me see… but he never listens. Even today, he didn't want to bring me. So I begged my mom. Told her, if I could go this one time, I'd never ask again. I cried a lot. She told him she needed to visit my aunt and to take me here. He argued, but he finally said yes."
"Maybe it's just that he doesn't want you to see fights? Some people think it's bad for kids," I said.
"No. I watch boxing matches all the time. I even tried to join classes. But he told Mom to stop me. Said boxing shouldn't become a family thing or whatever."
"That's unfair," I said. "He's doing it, right? Why not you?"
"He's always like that," Ashley whispered. "Not just boxing. He never talks to me — not at home, not outside. I used to think maybe he just didn't want to look uncool. Like… maybe he didn't want to be seen with younger kids."
But that wasn't it. He talks to other kids younger than me. My friends. He plays with them, jokes with them… but not with me."
His next words hit hard.
"Sometimes I feel… if I wasn't his brother, maybe he would've spoken to me normally. Maybe I could've laughed with him too. But being born as his brother… I don't know, it just made everything worse."
I had no reply.
"I love him," he said after a pause. "I respect him so much. Everyone talks about how nice he is — how he jokes, makes people laugh. My friends think he's amazing. But I've never seen that side of him. Not once."
I glanced at the ring. At the boy I'd been training. He was still there — sharp, focused, deep into his form. Serious, like always.
Too serious.
He wasn't living like a middle-schooler. He was carrying something heavier. Maybe that edge made him strong in the ring. But outside? It was freezing out people like Ashley.
I turned back to the kid. "You know... maybe your brother's trying to protect you. Fighting isn't all glory. Sometimes it brings you attention you don't want."
Ashley looked up. "I don't care. I just want him to talk to me. Just once... like he does with other people."
I didn't have the words.
So I said something stupid. "Well... maybe one day you'll beat him up for not being nice."
He giggled a little.
I stood and ruffled his hair. "Wanna learn a few tricks? Just enough to give your brother a scare when he finally decides to act like a child?"
His eyes lit up.
He jumped out of the chair like he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to ask him that.
I showed him some moves. Simple, playful things. A shoulder dip. A sneaky cross. Nothing big — just enough to make someone flinch.
I didn't know then that teaching him those few moves — in that small moment of kindness — would change everything. For me. For him. For his brother. For the story we were all unknowingly writing.
After training ended that evening, I took them both to the food court.
The sun was setting, casting this final golden haze over the street.
We were just walking when two guys crossed our path — one looked like a middle schooler, the other... hard to tell. Maybe high school, maybe just one of those grown-looking teenagers who hadn't quite figured himself out.
The younger one pointed. "That's the guy."
The older guy scratched his head, squinting at us. "What, that seven-year-old? You got beat up by that?"
"Not him, idiot," the kid snapped. "Where are you looking, four-eyed moron?"
The older guy's expression shifted — his grin folded inward, smirky now. "Chill, I was just joking. Even if you told me that tall guy was him, I'd beat him too. So this one's the Eastridge prodigy?"
I didn't say anything. Just looked over at the boy. He didn't blink. His stare was like ice — locked in, unmoving. But his little brother clung to his arm like something was about to explode.
I could feel it. If that clown in front of us made a single wrong move, this kid would break him like a twig.
Trying to defuse things, I asked, "What's going on here?"
The older guy tilted his head, grinning like it was all one big joke. "Relax, man. Your little brother's been knocking out people in this area. This guy with me? Got humbled by him yesterday. So, we're here for... friendly revenge."
I raised an eyebrow. "Friendly?"
His whole vibe felt off. Like he was pretending to be playful, but something underneath was twitching.
He leaned close and whispered, "But if my boy here beats your guy, we walk away. No hard feelings."
The way he said it — real slick, like he was offering me a cigarette and a backstab at the same time — made me clench without even realizing it.
I grabbed his wrist and twisted it up. Fast. He gasped in pain, face twitching.
"You should be in class, not playing thug in broad daylight," I said.
"W-What?" he stammered. "I'm... a third-year high schooler! Please let go, man—"
I loosened the grip. He backed off, shaking his hand like I'd zapped him.
"Third year," I repeated. "And you're out here dragging kids into your drama. Seriously?"
He grinned again, brushing off his shirt like nothing happened. "Nah, nah, I'm not here to fight," he said. "Actually came to recruit him."
I blinked. "Recruit?"
He stepped back, puffed his chest a little. "Yeah. I'm the leader of the King Slayers. Heard a lot about this so-called Eastridge prodigy. When I found out he clobbered my guy here, I figured I'd see it for myself. Maybe bring him in."
The other guy suddenly spoke up. "You serious?! You didn't bring me here to settle a score? You were just trying to steal him for your crew? Man, no wonder no one in your group respects you."
The older guy just scratched his head again, unfazed. "Hey, talent is talent. Can't waste it."
I looked at the boy again. Still still. Still watching. His little brother's grip hadn't loosened.
This had already gone too far.
I said firmly, "Whatever this is, he's not interested. Go."
That grin twisted.
"Huh? Who said you get to speak for him?" he said, stepping in close again. "You think just 'cause I called you big bro earlier you get to act like one? Look at them. He's the one the little guy's clinging to — not you."
He gestured at them lazily, then his voice dropped low.
"So again... who are you to decide?"
I was two seconds from slapping him.
But he moved first — a tight punch that clipped my jaw, sharp and fast.
My tongue hit my teeth. Taste of blood. I bent slightly from the sting.
He stood there smiling, stretching his arms behind his head like it was a warm-up.
"Oops. That's for the wrist lock. We're even now. Wanna escalate?"
I straightened slowly. Still calm. But that heat in my chest? It was rising.
"I say we both leave," I said, not taking the bait.
He tilted his head, eyebrows up. "Eh? You giving orders again?"
He took off his glasses slowly, smirking wider.
"I came here to see the prodigy fight. I spent my damn afternoon for this. If he doesn't join, fine. But I still wanna see how he fights."
I exhaled. Long. Controlled.
Then I threw the first punch.
Clean. Sharp. Right to the jaw.
But he leaned his head to the side, dodging without even stepping back.
I swung again — left, right, combo — but he danced around them like he was watching replays.
His body moved sloppy, lazy almost, but his reflexes were sharp. Too sharp.
He didn't fight like a trained guy. He fought like someone who'd had to fight. A lot.
Still, his feet hadn't moved. Just his head and shoulders shifting around like smoke.
So I changed it up. Faked a punch. Saw him lean — perfectly reading it.
Then I swept his leg.
Down he went.
He looked up from the ground laughing, like he enjoyed it.
"My bad! Got carried away. Won't happen again."
He stood back up but never recovered from there. I landed solid hits after that — clean, unblocked. He barely defended. No more dodges, no more showboating.
By the time I stopped, he was on his back again — legs one way, head tilted toward me, grinning like he just won the lottery.
"Alright, alright," he wheezed. "Let's stop. I lost."
I stared at him, irritated. "Then why even fight? You could've stopped anytime."
His chest rose and fell, still smiling. "I knew I couldn't beat that kid. He's too young — if I fought him, I'd lose respect with my crew."
Then he added, "But fighting you? That's different. Real experience. Better than what I came for."
He paused for a moment.
"You're James Donovan, right? Thought maybe... fighting you would teach me something."
I sighed. Deep and tired.
"Hm."
Without another word, I turned and led the kids toward the food court.
I treated them both — good meals, soft drinks, whatever they wanted. Just wanted to make the day easier, especially for the little one. Before we parted ways, I looked at the older boy and said,
"If you bring your little brother more often, I might treat you again like today. Just let him tag along."
I winked at the younger one, and his face lit up like he hadn't smiled that wide in weeks.
The boy replied, "Yes. We'll leave now. Thanks for the day… big bro?"
That last part caught me off guard.
Big bro.
The words hung in the air for a second longer than they should've. I felt my ears flush — actually blush, like a kid. I didn't know why it made me happy… but it did. Maybe because, just that once, it sounded real.
I waved them off. The little brother clung to his hand as they walked away.
But that was the first and last time he ever brought his younger brother to the gym.
After that, he came alone — just like always. I thought maybe he'd bring him again, but he never did.
I never asked why.
Maybe he didn't want to risk another ambush like that day.
Maybe he just preferred to keep things separate.
Maybe I wasn't supposed to know.
I didn't push it.
From then on, he always called me big bro.
And we clicked.
We joked, trained, laughed. A strange kind of bond.
Not forced. Just… natural.
I heard, once in a while, about him getting into fights outside.
Getting jumped, mostly.
But every time, he fought back — and won.
He was getting stronger.
Better than most guys his age.
Better than even some grown fighters I knew.
I stopped being surprised.
I don't remember how long it all lasted.
Long in training hours, short in real understanding.
He called me big bro.
But if I'm honest — painfully honest — I don't think I ever understood him.
And maybe, to him, I was never really a brother.
Just… someone useful. A teacher. A stepping stone.
Then came the day.
My first professional MMA match.
I'd spent nearly a year trying to go pro.
Trained for two.
Finally, I got my chance.
There were a lot of people in the crowd — gym mates, coaches, a few old faces.
But the one person I was looking for… didn't show.
I'd gotten him a ticket.
Reserved it myself.
Hoped he'd be there when it counted most.
But he wasn't.
The match was about to start. Still no sign.
I told myself it didn't matter — that I could focus.
But part of me kept checking the crowd.
Kept hoping.
And then the thoughts came.
"He's not coming."
"You were never a brother to him."
"You were just someone who helped him get better."
"That's all you ever were."
I couldn't tell if those thoughts were mine, or just my fear talking.
But they sank in.
And I carried them into the first round.
I did terribly. My head wasn't in it.
But then I snapped — not with rage, just… clarity.
Forget him. Fight.
In the second round, I landed my Glaive Step and the follow-through.
Knockout.
My first professional win.
The beginning of a career I'd dreamt of for years.
That night, the gym coach threw a party for everyone who'd come to support me.
Laughter, music, cheers — all of it.
But I felt… off.
Maybe it was guilt for thinking that way mid-match.
Maybe it was something else.
He hadn't texted.
Wasn't online.
Didn't even open the messages.
Eventually, I slipped out of the party and left alone.
Took the quiet streets back, walking with no music in my ears.
Just letting the city breathe around me.
I'd gotten a message from a team earlier — an offer. A real chance to join a pro fight camp.
I was supposed to pack my things from the gym today so that I can go the next evening.
I thought maybe I'd see him before leaving.
Talk things through.
One proper conversation, before life changed.
As I turned onto the street near the gym, I felt it.
Something… off.
People weren't looking at me directly, but I felt them watching.
Like whispers in the air. Something crawling under the silence.
My phone buzzed — a call from my coach.
I picked up. "Hey, I'm already in front of the—"
I didn't get to finish.
Whatever I heard on the other end of the line —
It froze me.
Felt like someone dumped ice water down my spine.
My fingers went cold. My legs moved on their own.
I ran.