Chapter 12:
The blinding overhead lights blurred as Jack blinked, struggling to keep his focus. His vision swam, and a sharp, throbbing pain radiated from his jaw. The crowd's roars were muffled, as if they were a million miles away, the sound ringing in his ears like static. His opponent's fists had felt like sledgehammers, relentless and unforgiving, and now he was paying the price.
Jack had always prided himself on his defense, on staying calm under pressure. But this time, he hadn't been fast enough, hadn't been sharp enough. It had been a mistake—a single, small mistake that allowed a right hook to connect cleanly with his chin, sending him crashing to the mat. He had pushed himself to stand again, but the damage had been done.
He didn't win the fight. The ref called it after the third round, and Jack's corner threw in the towel.
Now, back in the locker room, his head felt heavy, the weight of both the physical beating and the emotional toll settling deep in his bones. Lena sat nearby, her usual calm demeanor strained with worry. She had always been the steady voice, guiding him, grounding him when he needed it most. But tonight, even she seemed uncertain.
"You need to rest," she said firmly, pulling a chair over to sit beside him. "You took some heavy shots. I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did."
Jack winced as he touched the swollen side of his face. His jaw was bruised, his ribs aching from where his opponent's fists and knees had connected. Every inch of his body felt battered, the price of pushing himself harder than he ever had before.
"I could've had him," Jack muttered, though even as the words left his mouth, he wasn't sure he believed them.
Lena sighed, shaking her head. "No, you couldn't. Not tonight. You weren't at your best, and that's okay. It happens. But what matters now is making sure this doesn't happen again. And for that, you need to recover."
Jack stared down at his hands, still trembling slightly from the adrenaline and pain. His knuckles were red and raw, but it was the ache in his heart that hurt the most. He had been fighting for so long, trying to make something of himself, to prove that he wasn't just Ethan's shadow. But the truth was becoming harder to ignore—this path was destroying him.
He had been so focused on winning, on pushing himself to the limit, that he hadn't stopped to consider the toll it was taking. His body was breaking down, and worse, his mind was fraying at the edges. The anger, the grief, the guilt—none of it had gone away. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse with each fight.
Jack closed his eyes, letting out a long, slow breath. "What if this isn't the right path?" he asked quietly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the locker room. "What if fighting isn't going to give me the peace I've been looking for?"
Lena didn't respond immediately. She leaned back in her chair, studying him with a look of concern that went deeper than just his injuries. She had seen fighters burn out before, consumed by the same demons that drove them into the cage. Some found a way through it, others didn't.
"I can't answer that for you, Jack," she finally said. "But I will say this: fighting has a cost. Every time you step into that cage, you're risking more than just your body. It's your mind, your soul, your sense of who you are. If you're not careful, it can eat you alive."
Jack clenched his fists, the weight of her words sinking in. He had seen fighters who couldn't let go, who became addicted to the violence, to the adrenaline rush. They fought not because they had something to prove, but because it was the only way they knew how to cope. Was he becoming one of them? Was the cage becoming his crutch?
"I don't know what else to do," he admitted, the vulnerability in his voice surprising even him. "This has been my life since Ethan… since he died. It's the only thing that's kept me from falling apart."
Lena leaned forward, her eyes locking onto his. "But what happens when the fighting isn't enough anymore? When the wins stop feeling like victories? You have to ask yourself if this is worth it. You started fighting to honor Ethan, but is that still why you're doing it? Or are you just trying to outrun your pain?"
Jack sat in silence, her words cutting deep. The truth was, he didn't know why he was fighting anymore. At first, it had been about Ethan, about avenging his death and finding justice where none existed. But as the months had gone by, as the matches had blurred together, it had become more about surviving than anything else. Surviving the guilt, the anger, the loneliness.
But survival wasn't the same as living.
He had pushed his body to its limits, throwing himself into training, into the brutality of the cage, all to avoid facing the reality of his grief. But now, sitting here in the locker room, his body battered and broken, he couldn't avoid it any longer.
"I'm scared that if I stop, I'll fall apart," Jack said, his voice barely a whisper. "That if I stop fighting, I'll have nothing left."
Lena reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're stronger than you think, Jack. You've survived this long, and that didn't come from fighting. It came from you, from your heart, your mind. The fighting was just the outlet. But maybe it's time to find a different way to heal."
Jack nodded, though the idea terrified him. Fighting had become his identity, the one thing that made sense in a world that no longer did. But if Lena was right—and deep down, he knew she was—then he had to face the possibility that fighting wasn't the answer.
As the days passed, Jack's recovery was slow and painful. His body ached constantly, and the bruises took longer to heal than they used to. But it wasn't just the physical pain that weighed on him. Every day, he found himself questioning his path more and more. Was this really the life he wanted? Was this the way to honor Ethan, or was it just his way of hiding from the truth?
The cage had given him purpose, but it had also consumed him. And now, for the first time since he had started fighting, Jack wasn't sure if he could keep going. The cost was too high, and the peace he sought seemed further away than ever.
One evening, after a particularly grueling day of physical therapy, Jack sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. His muscles ached, and his mind was a whirlwind of doubts. But as he sat there, something Lena had said kept echoing in his head: *"The fighting isn't what makes you strong. You are."*
Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to find another way.
Jack didn't have all the answers yet, but for the first time, he was willing to start looking.