"The ring?"
Eshan's grin sharpens.
"The Bloody Ring."
I stare at him.
"What's that?"
"It's a ring for toddlers," he says straight-faced.
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. "Don't joke."
Razmir leans back, stretching his arms behind his head like this is some bedtime story. "You know we've been seeing each other since we were toddlers."
I blink. "Toddlers? You guys have an age gap."
"It's two years," Eshan says. "Relax."
Rafaen nods once. "We saw each other every other day. Parties. Family dinners. Nursery."
"We never talked," Razmir adds. "Just stared like tiny psychopaths."
I look between them. "This is insane."
"When I was four," Razmir continues, pointing at himself, "these two were three."
He jerks his thumb at Eshan and Rafaen.
"And Zayan was this kid with mochi cheeks, big brown eyes, red lips. Two years old. Eyebrows already aggressive."
I choke on a laugh.
I look at Zayan.
He's at the stove now, oil sizzling in the pan, back to us, shoulders tight.
Mochi.
I cannot unsee it.
Rafaen clears his throat. "I was scared of Razmir."
Razmir turns. "Why?"
"Your eyes," Rafaen says calmly. "One dark. One amber. Uneven. You looked possessed."
Eshan bursts out laughing. "Same, bro. I thought he was cursed."
Razmir flips them off. "Fuck you both."
I clap my hands once. "Talk about the fucking ring."
"We're coming to that," Razmir says.
Rafaen steps forward slightly, arms folded. "It's a training ring. For us. We started at five."
"Four," Zayan says from the stove without turning.
I snap my head toward him. "You're kidding."
He smirks slightly and flips something in the pan. The oil hisses louder.
"Not kidding."
Eshan leans back against the counter. "We didn't talk to each other when we saw each other in parties or kindergarten. Just these silent little heirs with too much money and worse tempers."
Razmir nods. "We three were already in the ring when Kamal brought his chubby grandson there."
The air shifts again.
"Kamal," I repeat.
"Yeah," Eshan says. "He walks in with this round kid. Big brown eyes. Those fucking eyebrows. Smiling at everyone like he's at a birthday party."
I look at Zayan's back.
Smiling.
Talking.
"Yeah," Razmir adds. "He talked a lot. Smiled at everyone. Annoying as hell."
Eshan grins. "Couldn't run though. Too heavy."
"Shut up," Zayan mutters.
They all laugh.
My chest tightens and I don't like that feeling.
"And then?" I push.
Eshan's grin fades slightly. "Then he hits four. Tiny one in the ring."
I swallow.
"We didn't like him," Razmir says bluntly. "Of course we didn't. He's Tavarian."
The word lands heavy.
"So we beat the shit out of him every day," Eshan says like he's describing weather.
Something inside my chest squeezes hard.
"You what?"
"We were small too," Razmir says quickly. "The hits weren't that bad."
I stare at them.
"You beat him. At four."
"He got beaten," Rafaen corrects quietly. "It goes both ways in a ring."
My eyes move to Zayan again.
He's still cooking.
Still calm.
Like this isn't about him.
"Then?" My voice sounds tighter than I want.
Eshan exhales. "Then he hit five."
Razmir nods slowly. "Lost all his fat in months. Became a stick."
I picture it.
Cheeks gone.
Smile gone.
"You're exaggerating," I say, but my voice is softer now.
"No," Rafaen says. "He started dodging punches. Not well at first. Still got hit."
Eshan shrugs. "But he stopped crying."
Silence.
"He stopped smiling too," Razmir adds. "Stopped talking."
The pan sizzles louder.
Or maybe my ears are just ringing.
"He used to talk nonstop," Eshan says. "Then suddenly nothing. Just watching. Calculating."
I look at Zayan's reflection in the glass cabinet.
Cold.
Even as a kid.
Rafaen touches his teeth unconsciously. "He hit me first when he was six."
Razmir smirks. "Yeah, bro. That punch knocked your tooth loose."
Rafaen rubs his jaw like he still feels it. "He didn't even blink."
I stare at Zayan.
"You hit him?"
Zayan finally turns slightly.
"He was in my way."
"That's it?" I demand.
He looks at me directly now.
"He hit me first for two years."
The room is dead quiet.
Razmir nods. "We started actually fighting then. Not kids slapping each other. Real punches. Real blood."
Eshan's jaw tightens. "We'd bleed on the mat and still show up the next day."
"And Kamal?" I ask.
"He watched, with our grandfather's." Rafaen says.
My stomach twists.
"And you were six," I whisper to Zayan.
He steps closer now, turning the stove off.
"I adapted."
"That's not adapting," I say, heat rising in my chest. "That's survival."
He doesn't flinch.
"Yes."
Razmir runs a hand through his hair. "We hated each other."
"Then we respected each other," Rafaen says.
"Then we started fighting together," Eshan adds.
Razmir nods slowly. "We bled. We broke. We learned."
He looks around the room at all of them.
"And somehow we became a family."
The word hangs there.
Family.
I look at Zayan.
At the control.
At the way he doesn't shake.
My chest feels tight again but different this time.
Zayan wipes his hands slowly.
"That weight," he says calmly, "is the reason I don't wear a shirt when I cook. It's muscle memory from the past."
His voice is flat. No drama. Just fact.
Eshan leans back, arms crossed. "Imagine if you were still that chubby."
Razmir scoffs. "He? You really think Kamal would allow that?"
Rafaen studies Zayan. "How the fuck did you get that strong in two years?"
Zayan doesn't hesitate.
"You only saw the ring," he says. "After that, he locked me in a room."
The kitchen feels colder.
"A room?" I repeat.
"With a projector," he continues. "Videos from the ring."
I don't move.
"He made me watch myself get hit. Over and over. Frame by frame."
My fingers curl against the counter.
"He never raised his voice," Zayan adds. "He only said one thing."
His eyes flick to mine.
"Learn."
Silence.
"He paused the footage," Zayan continues. "Asked me what I did wrong. Why I stepped left instead of right. Why I dropped my shoulder. Why I blinked."
I swallow.
"He showed me every mistake. Every weakness."
Eshan shifts uncomfortably.
"And that's how I learned yours," Zayan says.
He turns slightly toward them.
"Eshan's weak point was his right stomach side. One solid hit there and he folded."
Eshan clenches his jaw but says nothing.
"Rafaen's thigh," Zayan continues. "He overcommits his stance. Strike low and he collapses."
Rafaen nods once like he's acknowledging a fact.
"And Razmir—"
Razmir already knows.
"Fuck you," he mutters.
"His balance shifts when he's angry," Zayan says evenly. "Predictable."
No one laughs.
I'm not laughing.
My mind is stuck on a small boy in a dark room watching himself bleed on replay.
"That's how it got easy," Zayan says. "Once you understand patterns."
Patterns.
Like he's talking about math.
Not children beating each other.
I push off the counter.
"That's all?" I ask, my voice tighter now. "You guys just learned how to fight?"
Eshan exhales. "First that."
Razmir nods. "Then other things."
"What other things?" My voice drops.
Rafaen answers.
"How to hold a knife."
I flinch before I can stop myself.
"What?"
Zayan doesn't react.
Rafaen continues, calm and steady. "He got the knife skills first. I was jealous."
I look at Zayan.
There's no smirk.
No pride.
Nothing playful.
"That was bloody," he says quietly. "Those knives."
My chest tightens.
"My grandfather made it dirty before I even hit ten."
The air feels heavy.
"What did he make you do?" I ask.
Zayan's gaze stays steady on mine.
"Throw," he says.
"At what?"
"At people."
Silence slams into the room.
"And watch them bleed."
My brain stops.
For a second I genuinely can't process the sentence.
"You're joking," I whisper.
"I don't joke about that."
His voice is still controlled.
Still even.
That makes it worse.
Eshan looks at the floor.
Razmir rubs the back of his neck.
Rafaen's jaw tightens.
My thoughts start racing.
A child.
Under ten.
Holding a knife.
Being told to throw it at a person.
Being told to watch.
Learn.
No yelling.
No comfort.
Just correction.
Like training a machine.
Kamal didn't raise a grandson.
He built a weapon.
And the worst part?
Zayan stands there like it's just history.
Like it doesn't sit under his skin.
"Who?" I ask quietly. "Who did you throw at?"
"Men who volunteered," Zayan says.
"For what?" My voice shakes slightly and I hate that.
"For loyalty."
The room is suffocating.
I look at his hands.
Steady.
I search his face for anger.
For resentment.
For anything.
There's control.
There's awareness.
There's something colder.
And suddenly I understand why he never shakes.
Why he watches everything.
Why nothing surprises him.
Kamal didn't raise a boy.
He engineered one.
And now he stands in my kitchen cooking dinner like he didn't learn precision by making people bleed.
I don't laugh.
I don't move.
I just stare at him and realize something quietly, heavily, undeniably clear.
Kamal really did raise a monster.