The city looks different at 3:47 a.m.
Not quieter. Just… different. Like it's pretending to sleep but never really does. Neon signs flicker like they're shorting out. The air tastes like metal and something left burning too long. No cars. No footsteps. Just the buzz of the broken streetlamp outside the liquor store and the hum of guilt in my chest.
I'm staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, same cracked glass as always. Every time I look, I think about replacing it. Every time, I don't.
There's a cut above my eyebrow that I didn't notice until the blood dried and crusted into my hairline. The corner of my lip is split, too — the kind of split that keeps reopening every time I smirk, bite, or speak too hard.
I don't look like someone who won. I look like someone who survived.
And maybe that's all this shit really is.
---
The apartment smells like old sweat and yesterday's Chinese food. My gym bag's still half-zipped in the corner, tape spilling out like entrails. I should clean. I won't. I grab a half-empty water bottle from the floor and finish it in one drag. It's warm. Stale. But it's something.
The phone on the counter lights up.
**1: New Voicemail**
I already know who it's from. I already know I'm not gonna listen to it.
Her name's saved as just "Don't."
Not her real name. Not anymore. That name doesn't live here now. That name is attached to hospital corridors and IV machines and white coats that used words like "time of death" and "unfortunately."
I delete the voicemail without pressing play.
If it was important, she would've texted.
---
I sit on the edge of my mattress — no sheets, just the bare thing — and start unwrapping the gauze from my hands. My knuckles look like raw steak. I run my thumb over the bruising, feel the pulse underneath.
I remember something Coach said once.
"You keep punching like that, one day you're not gonna feel anything at all."
That was before. Back when I still flinched. Back when I still prayed before fights, even if I didn't believe in God. Back when I still thought one good win could wash it all clean.
Now, I don't flinch. I don't pray.
And nothing's clean.
---
By 4:12 a.m., I'm walking.
Nowhere specific. Just moving. Every block has that same empty look, like it knows the sun's still hours away. The city feels hungover. Some guy's passed out in front of a 24/7 pawn shop, curled up in a hoodie that probably wasn't his to begin with.
I used to walk this street with my brother.
That memory comes out of nowhere, hits like a sucker punch. Me and Khalid — fourteen and twelve — walking to the corner bodega after midnight, joking about who could win in a street fight: Ali or Tyson. We both said Ali, even though I didn't really believe it.
Tyson had that thing. That hunger.
Ali danced.
Tyson destroyed.
Khalid always picked the pretty side of things. I picked the parts with teeth.
---
I pass the gym without meaning to. It's closed, obviously, but the red metal door's still got that dent from the night Marcus tried to kick it in after Coach cut him. I remember laughing about it back then. Marcus ended up fighting in Atlantic City for a bit before he got locked up.
There's no glory in this game.
Not for people like us.
The first time I stepped into that ring, I was sixteen. No headgear. No promise. Just a pair of gloves and a chip on my shoulder big enough to level a city block.
Coach said I had "natural aggression."
Truth was, I was just angry at everything.
At the way Khalid died.
At the way nobody came to the funeral but my trainer and a neighbor who used to steal our mail.
At the way the world kept turning like none of it mattered.
The ring didn't care.
The ring let me hit something that hit back.
That was enough.
---
The sun starts creeping up behind the skyline like it's ashamed to be seen. Pale, watery light. I head back before the city wakes up. Before the streets fill with people pretending everything's fine.
I don't like mornings. They make the lie too obvious.
---
Coach is already at the gym when I show up at 7:30, sitting in his plastic chair with his feet up and a newspaper he doesn't really read. He glances up once when I walk in. Doesn't speak.
"Morning," I say, voice hoarse.
"You get any sleep?"
"Not really."
He nods, like that's an answer. "Your left hand's dragging."
"Still landed."
"Barely."
I stretch my arms and roll my shoulders until something cracks. The bags are already hanging, the floor swept, mats still drying in the corner. Coach doesn't talk about the fight last night. He never does the morning after. His way of letting you breathe before he breaks you down.
"Wrap up," he says. "We're drilling footwork today. No mitts. No bag."
"Footwork?"
"Your balance was shit by round three. You were leaning too far into your crosses, letting your back leg get lazy."
I don't argue. I just nod and start wrapping. Each turn around the wrist is like a ritual. Tight. Smooth. Familiar.
Coach watches me like he's looking for something he lost in me. Maybe he is.
---
Two hours later, I'm soaked in sweat and pissed off. The drills are basic, but he's nitpicking every step like I've never stepped into a ring before.
"Again," he snaps. "Your rear pivot's a mess. You're squared up too much. What are you, a brawler now?"
I stop moving. My chest's heaving. I want to snap back. Tell him to throw on gloves and show me himself. But I don't.
He sighs and rubs his face. "You got power, Malik. No one's denying that. But you're throwing like you don't care if you miss. Like you want to fall forward. You know who throws like that?"
I don't answer.
"Amateurs. People who get knocked out."
I rip the tape off my hands and toss it on the floor. "You done?"
"You done pretending this is just about the fights?"
That shuts me up.
He stands, walks to the edge of the ring, and leans on the ropes. "You keep walking around like your pain makes you special. Like the rest of us didn't lose people, too. But you're not the only broken one in this gym."
My jaw tightens. My throat closes.
He doesn't say it, but I know what he's trying not to mention. **Khalid.**
Coach was there the night he died. He was the one who pulled me out of the street when the cops showed up. He was the one who kept me from doing something stupid. And now he's the one trying to remind me I'm still here.
But I don't want to hear it.
I grab my bag and walk out without saying a word.
---
Outside, it starts to rain — soft at first, then harder. I let it hit me. I don't bother pulling my hoodie up. It feels good, the sting on my bruised skin, the cold creeping into my bones. Feels real.
I pull out my phone. The voicemail's still gone. But my texts are open. A message from her is still sitting there from two weeks ago.
**"You can't keep living like this. It's going to kill you."**
I never replied.
I still won't.
---
Back home, I shower with the lights off. Sit on the tile floor until the water runs cold. My knuckles are throbbing. My chest feels heavy.
But for the first time in a long time, I whisper something under m
y breath.
I don't even know why.
Just one word.
**"Khalid."**
And in that moment, it doesn't feel like I won.
But it does feel like I bled for something.