The Notorious

The belt is ten minutes away, and my left side already feels wrong.

Marisol’s fingers press the tape around my ribs, tight enough that each breath squeaks. The locker room smells like disinfectant and old sweat, and the crowd noise leaks through the cinderblock walls. She looks up at me like she’s measuring the exact second I might do something stupid.

“You don’t win a title by being brave for thirty seconds,” she says. “You win it by being you for twenty-five minutes.”

I bite down on my mouthguard, the little silver star clicking against my teeth. “I am me. That’s the problem.”

She snorts, but her eyes don’t laugh. “Dax Calder is going to kick your lead leg until it stops working. Then he’ll dig for that body. He’s called The Notorious for a reason. He smells one weakness and he turns it into an ending.”

Outside, the announcer drags our names across the arena like a rope. Through the cracked door, I catch a glimpse of the tunnel lights and the white glare waiting at the octagon. Someone slaps my shoulders. Someone says, “New champ tonight.” I nod like I believe it.

Marisol leans in close, voice low. “First minute, you show him nothing. You circle. You touch him with the jab. You make him chase.”

My hands flex inside the wraps. I can already see it: him stepping in too hard, me meeting him, the whole place going quiet for one clean second.

The official knocks. “Walkout.”

Marisol grips my chin, forcing my eyes on hers. “You want the belt, Kamal? Earn it the smart way.”

In the tunnel, Dax is shadow-kicking, loose and smiling, like he’s already halfway into my body. The roar rises as I step toward the light, torn between the finish I crave and the plan that might keep me standing.