Lachlan
It felt strange walking up to the outside of the house. Same driveway, same beat-up mailbox, same smell of fried garlic wafting out the kitchen window. Still felt like a time capsule. Like the world had moved on, but this block refused to.
I knocked anyway, even though I knew I didn't need to.
Dad opened the door before I could say anything. He looked tired. Not weak, just... older than I remembered from last week. His eyes didn't soften when he saw me, and that said more than any hug would've.
"Thanks for coming," he said.
I stepped inside. Mom was at the stove. She turned, gave me a soft smile, and said nothing. Just a nod. A look. That was enough.
I followed Dad into the back room. The one with the old Buddhist calendar still pinned above the TV. The floor creaked under our weight. He closed the door behind us and let out a long breath like he'd been holding it since dawn.
"You saw the broadcast," I said.
He didn't nod. Didn't deny it either.
"You look sharp," he said instead. "Fast. That takedown in the second? Cold as ice."
I raised an eyebrow. "You didn't call me here to talk about the fight."
"No," he said. "I called because I'm scared."
That... stopped me. My dad didn't say scared. Not even during the hard winters. Not even when he told me what Thailand cost him.
"They'll have seen it," he went on. "My brothers. My cousins. People back home. You made noise, Lach. Real noise."
I leaned back into the old armchair. "So what? Let them see. Let the whole damn world see."
His jaw tightened. "You don't understand. Over there, it's not glory they want. It's control. And if they think you're worth something—worth money—they'll come for you. They'll spin it like tradition. Honor. Family. But it's not. It's chains."
"Then let them try," I said, voice low. "Let them fucking try."
"Don't," he snapped. "Don't act like you're ready for that kind of storm."
"I'm not a kid anymore, Dad."
"I know. That's why I'm saying this now."
He moved across the room, picked up a photo from the side shelf. One I hadn't seen in years. Him in Chiang Rai, arms raised, face cut open but smiling. Lance as a baby in mom's arms.
"I bled for their name," he said. "I gave them everything, and when I left, they swore I'd regret it. That no son of mine would rise without them owning a piece."
I stood. "They don't own me."
"They will try."
His voice cracked a little. Just a little. "And if you give them even an inch, they won't stop. They'll dress it up like legacy. They'll put your face on posters. Train you like livestock. Parade you like a prince. And when they're done, when you lose or break or refuse—they'll erase you like you were never born."
Silence.
I looked away. At the old walls. At the worn-out couch. At everything this house represented.
"You think I'll run to them?" I finally said.
"I think," he said slowly, "you don't yet know what kind of hunger men like that carry. And I think... I should've told you sooner."
He stepped forward and laid a hand on my shoulder. Rough. Solid. The same hand that used to hold pads in the backyard.
"You want to fight?" he said. "Fine. You're a man. But don't forget who you are. And don't let them twist it into something else."
I nodded. Just once.
Then I hugged him.
And for the first time in years, he held on.
Somewhere between memory and nightmare
I don't remember falling asleep. One minute I was on the mattress upstairs, shirt damp with sweat, fan humming overhead. The next—I was there.
Thailand.
Not the postcard version.
Not beaches and temples and saffron-robed monks.
No. This was the version buried deep in my blood.
Red earth. Dense air. The rusted gates of the old Muay Thai camp in Chiang Rai. The smell of fish sauce, smoke, and rain.
And the heat.
Jesus, the heat.
I was barefoot in the ring. The ropes were frayed, the padding torn, sweat soaking the canvas. My hands were wrapped—tight, too tight. My knuckles throbbed beneath them.
And they were watching.
Rows of men behind chain-link fencing, shirtless, smoking, shouting in clipped Thai. They weren't here for sport. They were here for violence.
A bell rang.
I turned, and across from me was a boy. My age. Maybe younger. Bones sharp. Eyes black with hunger. No emotion. No mercy. He moved like a shadow. Fast. Silent.
And I knew—he was family.
A cousin. Distant maybe. But blood all the same. Another boy pulled from a village, trained under whip and cane, sharpened like a blade.
He charged.
I met him in the center with a clinch, elbows flying. My forearm cracked against his cheek. He stumbled. Came back. Low kick. High kick. I ducked, felt the wind shear past my ear.
The crowd roared. Not in joy. In demand.
More.
I slipped. His knee drove into my ribs. Fire exploded down my side. I bit down on the scream. Slammed my forehead into his jaw. He crumpled. The ref didn't stop it.
No one stopped it.
Because here, the fight didn't end when one fell.
It ended when the spirit broke.
I raised my hands—out of instinct, out of memory—and looked up.
And there they were. The elders.
Watching from the balcony above. Silent. Stern. Wrinkled faces carved from stone.
One of them leaned forward and said something. Thai, but I understood.
"He is one of ours."
Another:
"He will bring honor back to the family."
And another:
"Call him home."
My chest heaved. My throat burned. I looked down at my hands—red, raw, blood-slicked. I couldn't breathe.
Suddenly I was in a room. Wood walls. An altar in the corner. A monk chanting in the background.
And there was my father—younger, thinner, face darkened with bruises. He looked at me, but didn't say anything.
Only handed me his wraps. The old ones.
The ones still stained.
I tried to speak—to ask if this was real—but my voice didn't come.
Behind me, a voice rose. Low. Familiar.
Chiron.
"Wake up, Lachlan."
The dream began to unravel. The smoke peeled away. The chanting faded. The altar caught fire.
Then—
I jolted upright.
Back in the room. Detroit. Gym walls. Fan spinning overhead. Chest drenched in sweat. Heart rattling like a drum inside a cage.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on my knees, hands over my face.
Still shaking.
Still tasting iron in my mouth like I'd just stepped out of that ring.
I reached for my phone. 3:12 AM.
No messages.
No calls.
Only silence.
And yet, I could still hear them. Those voices, old and waiting.
"Call him home."
No.
Not yet.
Not ever.