Vera was the first to call. It was early, six in the morning. Rof was already up; sleep hadn't really claimed him. He'd just been drifting in and out of sleep next to his father's chair. When his phone buzzed, he picked it up before the second ring.
"You didn't call," she said.
"You didn't say I had to," Rof replied.
There was a pause. It was short. It felt like she was tucking that remark away. "Reach the intersection of Broad and Ellsworth in forty minutes. Don't eat anything," she instructed before hanging up.
Rof looked over at his sleeping father. Still breathing. Still there. He scribbled a note on the back of an old receipt - 'Back before noon. Soup's in the fridge' - and left it on the armrest of the chair, right where his father would see it.
He put on his cross, hiding it under his shirt. He then stepped out into the chilly Philadelphia morning.
Vera was already there, parked at the corner in her black car. She looked like she hadn't slept either, but it didn't show the way it did on most people. On her, it simply looked like she was focused. As if she had chosen sleep to be optional and her face had agreed.
Without a word, Rof got into the car.
She drove in silence, not mentioning where they were headed. He didn't ask. He just watched the city pass by - the early risers heading to work, corner shops opening their shutters, pigeons going about their business.
"Tell me about the speed," Vera eventually said.
Rof froze.
"The doctor told you," he said.
"The doctor tells me everything," she replied calmly, taking a turn. "He's been working for me for two years."
Rof took a moment to digest that. He'd never been quick to understand things that weren't physical. "So, last night. The back room. The doctor checking me out. That was..."
"Me gathering information, yes," Vera cut him off. She glanced at him, unapologetic but honest. "What did it feel like?"
Rof considered lying. He wasn't above it - he did it as naturally as some people breathe through their mouths, without consciously deciding to. But a part of him knew that lying to Vera was like lying to someone who already knew the truth and was merely testing your honesty.
"It felt like the world was falling apart," he said. "Like I could see every fragment at once."
Vera nodded slowly, as if his words confirmed her suspicions.
"Silas has something similar," she said.
The car fell silent.
"It's not the same," she continued. "His didn't come from wherever yours did. Silas honed his skill over ten years. He does something - fighters call it 'the read' - where he studies his opponent for the first thirty seconds of a fight and then he knows. Every habit. Every tell. Every micro-movement. After thirty seconds, he fights the version of you that's thirty seconds ahead. You throw a punch, he's already where your punch is going to miss."
Rof stared at the road. "That's just skill."
"It's beyond skill. Two men tried to quit against him. They couldn't. He was always a step ahead of the step ahead. One of them cried in the ring," Vera said, her voice devoid of pleasure or cruelty. Just facts. "Silas doesn't do it for money. He does it because he likes proving that people are predictable. He thinks everyone has a pattern. That free will is nothing more than a story people tell themselves." She paused. "And he's been right every time. Until now."
"Until me."
"You're not predictable, Rof. Not because you're unpredictable, but because you're not thinking. Silas can't read a man who isn't following a pattern, and you're not following one because there's nothing in your head to form a pattern."
Rof turned to her. "Did you just call me stupid?"
"I called you an advantage," she replied, almost smiling. "There's a difference."
She pulled over by a building that was once a boxing gym, but now it was barely holding onto that identity - the floors were covered in peeling tape, the boxing ring had sagging ropes, and the punching bags looked like they'd been hit one too many times.
Inside, a man was hitting one of those bags. Not aggressively, just methodically. The same combination. Over and over. Picture perfect.
He stopped when they walked in and turned around.
Silas was nothing like Tank. He was of average height, lean, probably around thirty. He had a forgettable face, the kind that made you look twice because you weren't sure if you'd seen it correctly the first time. His eyes were what drew you in - dark, calm, assessing Rof like a scanner.
Rof felt it right away. The look. It was like being measured without a ruler.
"Rof Leon," Silas said in a quiet, scholarly voice. "Twenty-four years old. No formal training. One fight, unorthodox finish. You throw your jab six inches higher than standard when you're anxious. Your left foot turns out when you're about to move right." He tilted his head. "You're already doing it now. Your left foot."
Rof looked down. His left foot was turned out. He looked back up.
"That's thirty seconds?" Rof asked.
"Fifteen," Silas replied, picking up his water bottle. "You're simple. No offense."
Vera watched from the doorway, saying nothing.
Rof crossed his arms. A feeling settled in his chest - not calm, not fear. Something in between that he had learned to trust more than either. "So why are you showing me this? You're my next fight. You just told me what you can do."
Silas looked at him for a long moment. Then he did something unexpected.
He smiled.
It was small. And it was the most unsettling smile Rof had ever seen - not warm, not cold, just empty. Like the smile of a man who is already ten steps ahead and finds the gap between the present and the future mildly amusing.
"Because it doesn't matter," Silas said. "You knowing changes nothing. You'll still move the same way. Everyone does." He sat down on the bench and opened his water bottle. "The only variable I can't calculate is what happened in your brain when Tank threw that hook. That thing you did - the speed, the stillness, whatever it was." His eyes moved to Rof's chest, to the outline of the cross under his shirt. "I want to see it again. Up close."
The room fell silent.
"In three days," Vera said from the doorway. "Be ready, Rof."
Rof looked at Silas. Silas looked back. The smile was gone. Now it was just the eyes - still, dark, patient.
He's already running the fight, Rof realized. Right now. In his head.
And somewhere under Rof's sternum, the cross pressed cold against his skin.
He took a breath.
I ain't falling.
But for the first time, he thought: What if falling isn't the worst thing that can happen in that ring?