Blood has a way of telling the truth.
It doesn't care about belts, cameras, or how loudly a crowd shouts your name. It doesn't flinch for champions or pause for applause. It spills when it must, and when it does, everything becomes honest.
The fight with Adebayo was supposed to be routine. Mandatory defense. Easy money. Another highlight reel, another night of raised hands and flashing lights. That's what the promoters promised. That's what the analysts predicted. That's what I believed.
Adebayo was strong, disciplined, hungry—but predictable. I'd seen his rhythm before the bell even rang. The Sight showed me the angles, the timing, the mistakes he didn't know he'd make yet. I moved ahead of him like I always did, slipping punches before they were thrown, answering combinations before they finished forming in his mind.
The crowd went wild. They always do when dominance looks effortless.
I won by decision. Clean. Controlled. Another belt secured. Another night they'd call historic.
But history doesn't bleed.
The morning after, my nose wouldn't stop bleeding.
I leaned over the sink, palms braced against cold porcelain, watching red drip into white. Drop after drop. Too steady. Too calm. There was no pain. No sharp sting. No dizziness. Just a hollow pressure behind my eyes, like something pressing outward, testing the walls of my skull.
That scared me more than the blood itself.
I wiped my face with a towel, but it soaked through almost instantly. I stared at my reflection—champion, undefeated, eyes clear and focused. I looked fine. That was the problem.
At the gym, the smell of sweat and leather should have grounded me. It always had. The ring was my church, the only place where everything made sense. But that morning, something felt off, like the air itself had shifted.
Coach Musa noticed before I finished warming up.
"You look wrong," he said, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"I'm fine," I replied.
Liars always start there.
He didn't argue. He never did when he knew the truth would catch up on its own. Instead, he nodded toward the ring. "Let's see."
Sparring started light. Footwork. Jabs. Timing drills.
And then I missed.
Not badly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But I felt it. A fraction of a second late. A punch sliding past my guard that should've never gotten close.
No warning flicker. No quiet whisper in my mind.
The next round was worse. I took a body shot I should've stepped away from. Felt the air leave my lungs in a sharp, humiliating burst. My timing lagged behind my body, like my instincts were waiting for instructions that never came.
For the first time in years, boxing felt honest again.
Brutal. Unpredictable.
Real.
Coach Musa stopped the session early. "Enough," he said, voice low. "You're not hurt, but you're not right either."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to say the Sight would come back, that it always did. But the words felt thin, unconvincing even to me.
The Sight wasn't gone.
It was offended.
That night, the vision came without invitation. No warning. No buildup. Just darkness—and then clarity.
I saw a ring I didn't recognize. Smaller. Older. The ropes sagged like tired shoulders. The canvas was stained, patched, remembered too many losses. The crowd was there, but quieter, closer, like they were leaning in instead of cheering.
I was in the ring. Older. Slower. My body heavier, my reactions duller. Across from me stood a man I'd never faced. His eyes were calm. Knowing.
I saw the punch before it landed.
And I didn't dodge.
Pain tore through my ribs, white-hot and final. I gasped and collapsed forward—into my bathroom, knees hitting tile as water splashed over my hands. Blood streamed from my nose again, swirling red around my feet like something alive.
I clutched the sink, shaking.
Blood doesn't lie.
If the Sight could hurt me outside the ring, if it could reach into my body and pull pain from the future into the present, then it was no longer a gift.
It was leverage.
It was a warning.
I cleaned myself up slowly, deliberately, like speed might trigger another vision. Every mirror felt dangerous now. Every shadow a threat.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
You felt that one, didn't you?
My fingers hovered over the screen. My heart hammered harder than it ever did under the lights.
Who is this? I typed. Deleted.
The message continued before I decided.
Blood is louder than applause.
I sat down hard on the edge of the tub. My throat tightened. The pressure behind my eyes returned, sharper now, like it recognized being named.
You're not broken, the message said. You're waking up.
For the first time since I was seventeen—since the first vision, the first saved punch, the first win that didn't make sense—I felt small.
Not because I was bleeding.
But because someone else was watching the same future.
And they knew what I was just beginning to understand:
The ring doesn't lie.
The blood doesn't lie.
And neither does fear.