Makii Smith
I went to bed a father and a husband.
I woke as a trapped son.
The TV was still on in the living room, humming low like it had been all night. I came out to turn it off, thinking it'd just be another rerun of that stiff-suited newsman talking about the president or the border or some new bill no one asked for.
But it wasn't.
It was him.
Lachlan. My son. Standing center-ring, wrapped in sweat and spotlight, blood trailing down his jaw like a crimson thread.
And that voice—
"A local legend in the making. The Ghost."
I stood there barefoot on cold tile, breath caught in my throat like I was thirteen again and hearing my uncle yell my name from the back of the fighting pit.
The smoke from the rice cooker curled in the air, faint and sweet. The city outside was still asleep. But my chest?
My chest was screaming.
Lachlan. My boy.
He didn't ask for this. Didn't ask to be made into a myth, to be weighed down by the blood that already almost broke me.
He had his own name. His own fight.
But now the world knew.
The Ghost.
God help us, now they knew too.
Ariel came into the kitchen, hair still damp from her shower, wrapped in that old robe I bought her on our first trip back to Bangkok. She touched my back gently, soft fingers that reminded me I was here. I was safe.
"Is that from last night's fight?" she asked, already knowing.
I nodded. Couldn't speak. My mouth was dry as ash.
She stepped beside me and watched the screen, arms folded across her chest. Her eyes were unreadable. She'd seen too much to be shocked. But her silence held something deeper. Something maternal. Ancient.
"He looked good," she said softly. "Controlled."
"Too good," I muttered.
Her brow furrowed. "You're not proud?"
"I'm terrified."
She turned to face me fully now. "You think they'll see it?"
"They will." I swallowed. "They always do."
I could already hear the phone ringing. Not now, maybe not today—but soon. A cousin. An uncle. Maybe my brother. Someone with a cold voice and colder intentions.
"Is that your son? The fighter? Send him to train. We'll make him great."
No. No, you won't.
You'll make him useful.
Like they tried with me.
I remembered the pit in Chiang Rai. Mud thick as cement, the crowd leaning in close, shouting bets in three languages. My first win came with a broken rib. My second win came with a scar I still carry under my left eye. All the wins came with some price.
I left that world behind. For good.
I raised my sons in Detroit. I cooked their meals. I walked them to school. I put a roof over their heads and swore they'd never have to kneel before any man with money and bloodlust in his hands.
But Lachlan... he found the fight anyway.
Not because I wanted him to.
Because it was in him.
And now?
Now the world wanted more.
Ariel squeezed my hand. "You know he's not like them."
"That's what I'm afraid of," I whispered. "He's better. That's why they'll come."
She stepped closer, rested her forehead against my shoulder. "Then we protect him. Like we always have."
The TV cut to another replay. That take down. The mount. The finish. Beautiful. Clinical. A far cry of the name I'd chosen for a new life.
"Adulyadej."
I turned it off.
I didn't want to see it again.
Not because I wasn't proud.
Because I was.
And that pride felt like a loaded gun.
I looked toward the hallway, where his door stayed closed. Where he'd be asleep if he was here. Where he'd be if I didn't chase him away. I see too much of myself in him, so I have to be tougher. Except that's not what I should've done. I repeated the cycle, the same thing my father did to me, my grandpa did to him.
The world thought they'd found a fighter.
They didn't know they'd found my son.
And they sure as hell didn't know what we're willing to do to keep him free.