Samson
Free City of Antarctica – Private Gym, The Morning After the Broadcast
The screen was still playing clips from Smith's fight when I punched the bag so hard the chain snapped.
The thud of it hitting the ground echoed through the gym, but no one said a damn word. Not Javier, not my padman, not even Delilah, who stood across the room stretching in that skin-tight black set she knew drove me crazy.
They all knew better.
The broadcast had been playing on a loop since last night. Smith this. Ghost that.
And then that line—
"The most dangerous man since Chakrii himself."
Bullshit.
I ripped off my gloves, sweat slicking my forearms. My knuckles burned under the wraps. Good. Let 'em bleed.
I stalked to the corner of the room, grabbed a towel, and wiped my face. In the mirror, I looked like a god carved out of muscle and venom. Twenty-six wins. No losses. Middleweight champion of the world. Not the underground. Not regional. Not legacy circuits.
The world.
I had the belt. The sponsors. The media deals. I trained in million-dollar facilities while Smith lived in gyms that still smelled like rust and regret.
So why the hell couldn't I change the channel without seeing his face?
Delilah padded over slowly, water bottle in hand. Her hair was pulled back, but a strand had come loose and curled near her temple. She always had that softness to her—like a housecat that used to be feral.
"You good?" she asked.
I didn't answer. Just stared at the muted screen behind her. Smith, hand raised. Blood on his face, like war paint.
She followed my gaze and sighed. "You know, you don't have to obsess over him. You're in different weight classes."
"Doesn't matter," I muttered. "People talk like he's the second coming. He's not. I am. He's just a peasant with a chip on his shoulder and a sob story."
Delilah's lips pressed into a line. She didn't argue, but her silence said enough.
I threw the towel onto the bench. "He's not special, Dee. He's just… branded better."
"Or maybe," she said carefully, "he's just got something they connect to."
I turned, slow. "You mean like you do?"
Her jaw set. "Don't start."
"Oh, come on. You grew up with him, didn't you? Same neighborhood, same circles. You two used to get drunk and go to the car meets on Woodward, right?"
She froze. Just for a second.
Yeah. I knew. I knew all of it.
"I haven't spoken to Lachlan in months," she said flatly. "And I didn't come here to talk about him."
"No," I said. "You came here to fuck the champ."
She flinched, but I saw the fire light up behind her eyes. She hated when I got like this.
Good.
"Don't mistake pity for admiration, Samson," she said. "Lachlan doesn't need people to worship him. That's your kink."
I smiled—tight. Cold. "You're damn right it is."
Because I earned it. Earned the right to be here. The masses, the media, they should be thanking me that I allow them to watch my fights. I was born with a crown and I will die with a crown. The fact that they are even saying this 'dog' may be more dangerous than me is blasphemous.
And now?
Now they were whispering about him.
Smith. The Ghost. The new storm on the horizon.
Let them whisper. Let them drool over his street fights and his haunted eyes.
Because one day the noise would get too loud. The pressure would crack him open. All that trauma he hides behind? It's a fuse. And I know what happens to men like him when the flame catches.
They implode.
And when they do—I'll be there.
Not in his weight class? Doesn't matter. Big fights get made when the money's loud enough.
And I'll make sure that fight happens.
Because the moment I stand across from him under those lights, when there's nowhere to run and the world is watching?
I'll show them the difference between a myth and a god