The next morning tasted like metal.
Prince woke before his alarm, lungs drawing sharp breaths as if he'd surfaced from deep water. For a moment he didn't move. He listened to the radiator clanking weakly, to the hiss of wind sneaking through the window frame, to the faint rumble of buses somewhere down the main road. London was waking, stretching, preparing to swallow another day whole.
Prince rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up slowly, muscles stiff and uncooperative. Yesterday's training still pulsed beneath his skin, an ache threaded through every joint. His ribs throbbed when he inhaled too deeply. His knuckles felt packed with gravel.
Good, he thought. Let the pain remind me.
He stood and crossed the room, limping slightly. The mirror on the wall caught him again same scar, same storm in his eyes, same hunger simmering beneath the exhaustion. But something else lingered today. A weight. A whisper. Ruiz.
The name felt like a shadow stretched across his morning.
Prince splashed cold water on his face until the sting forced him fully awake. He dressed in layers gray thermal, faded hoodie, track pants loose enough not to aggravate the bruise blooming across his thigh. As he laced his trainers, his mind replayed Morgan's words.
Respect fades. Crowns fade. Find something deeper.
Prince wasn't sure he knew how. He'd spent so long chasing, climbing, surviving. He'd never stopped to understand what, exactly, sat at the root of it all. What fuel kept burning, even when everything else went dark.
He locked the flat behind him and stepped into the early morning chill. The sun had not yet broken through the cloud cover; instead, the sky hung heavy and pale, like a lid on a boiling pot. Prince pulled his hood tighter and started walking.
The city felt different this morning sharper around the edges, tense, as if bracing for something. Prince moved through it quietly, weaving past commuters in long coats and cyclists still half-asleep. A delivery truck splashed through a puddle, drenching the curb. A street sweeper hummed its slow route. The scents of damp stone, petrol, and stale cigarettes filled the air.
When he reached the café near the station, he paused.
He almost never stopped during training cycles. But something tugged at him. A moment of stillness, maybe. A second to catch whatever breath the world allowed before demanding more.
Inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of coffee and baked bread. The barista recognized him but didn't say anything only raised her eyebrows in that quiet way that meant You're back early. Prince nodded once, grateful for the silence.
He ordered a black coffee, no sugar. The cup warmed his hands, grounding him. He took a slow sip, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue.
Then he heard it.
Two men at a nearby table, talking just loud enough for the words to cut through the ambient murmur.
"Ruiz is gonna flatten him, fam. Man's a machine."
"Prince? Nah, he's good. But Ruiz? Different breed."
"Good ain't enough in this sport."
Prince kept his eyes on his cup. Their voices weren't malicious just honest, unfiltered street analysis. But the words still needled at him, threading themselves into the places where doubt hid.
He finished his drink, slid the cup into the bin, and stepped back outside.
Time to run.
He started down the pavement, pace slow at first, then quickening, building, sharpening. His breath puffed clouds into the crisp air. The rhythm steadied him each step a beat, each inhale a command. Cars honked. Pigeons scattered. A cyclist nearly clipped him at a crossing. But Prince barely registered it.
He ran until his body loosened, until the sting in his ribs dulled beneath the repetition. He ran until his thoughts thinned and only one remained.
I will not break.
By the time he reached the gym, sweat dampened the back of his hoodie. The Soho Boxing Club buzzed with life now bags thudding, ropes whistling, gloves cracking against pads. The familiar noise washed over him like a baptism.
Morgan spotted him from across the room and jerked his head. "Office. Now."
Prince swallowed whatever apology hovered on his tongue and followed.
Morgan's office was cluttered newspapers stacked in leaning towers, gloves hung like relics on the walls, a whiteboard filled with scrawls only he could decipher. He closed the door behind them, sealing the noise outside.
Morgan tossed a folded sheet onto the desk. "Read."
Prince unfolded it. A printout from a sports site an article about the upcoming fight. The headline hit first:
RUIZ VS. PRINCE: A KING MEETS A PRETENDER
Prince felt heat flare behind his ribs.
He skimmed the text words like overmatched, inexperienced, a dangerous mismatch. Ruiz described as a rising storm. Prince described as a promising fighter "still struggling to define his identity."
He set the paper down slowly. "They can say what they want."
Morgan's voice was low but sharp. "Words are weapons, son. Some fighters crumble under them."
"I'm not some fighters."
Morgan studied him for a long moment. "No. You're not."
The coach leaned back in his chair. "Ruiz's camp confirmed a press conference tomorrow. You'll be there. Cameras will be there. Don't let them see you flinch."
Prince bristled. "I don't flinch."
"Everyone flinches at something." Morgan drained the last of his mug. "Your job is to decide what deserves it."
Prince clenched his jaw. "Ruiz doesn't."
Morgan nodded once, satisfied. "Good. Now suit up. We're working defense today."
Defense meant hell.
Prince wrapped his hands, strapped on his headgear, and stepped into the ring with Malik a heavyweight who hit like a falling brick wall. Morgan wanted Prince to survive ten rounds of pressure. No countering. No flashy footwork. Just weathering the storm.
The bell rang.
Malik came at him immediately, swinging wide hooks that rattled Prince's guard. Prince stayed tight, pivoting cautiously, protecting his ribs. Sweat flew. The canvas thumped beneath their feet. The gym seemed to contract around them.
"Keep breathing!" Morgan barked. "Storm ain't over till you say it is!"
Prince absorbed another blow to the body, pain flaring hot and bright. His vision flickered for half a heartbeat.
He gritted his teeth.
Again.
Malik pressed harder, but Prince's feet stayed moving small, sharp adjustments, never still, never lost. The ring felt smaller with every exchange, but Prince refused to fold.
Rounds blurred together.
By the eighth, his arms ached, shoulders screaming. By the ninth, his breath came in ragged bursts. By the tenth, every muscle felt carved from fire.
When the final bell rang, Prince sagged against the ropes, drenched in sweat.
Morgan climbed into the ring. "What hurts?"
"Everything."
"Good. Means you're alive."
Prince let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-grimace.
Morgan clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Ruiz hits harder than Malik. But Ruiz won't break what's built from this."
Prince nodded, feeling the tremor in his legs settle into something steadier resolve.
After training, the locker room hummed with the chatter of fighters winding down. Prince sat on the bench, peeling off his wraps. Malik passed by and bumped his fist against Prince's shoulder.
"You're tough, man. Respect."
Prince nodded. "Good rounds."
Malik grinned. "Hell for you. Fun for me."
Prince snorted, shaking his head.
When he finally stepped out onto the street, night had settled thick, cold, humming with life. The city lights shimmered on wet pavement. Prince walked slowly, letting the cool air soothe his burning lungs.
His phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
You're not ready for him.
Quit while you're ahead.
Prince stared at it, unmoving.
Then he smiled.
Not out of amusement but out of recognition.
Fear was in the air.
Not his.
Theirs.
He deleted the message and kept walking, shoulders squared, jaw set, something fierce and unshakable rising in his chest.
The Sovereign was not a title.
It was a promise.
And he was done letting others define it.
Tomorrow, the first cameras would point at him.
Tomorrow, Ruiz would finally acknowledge him.
Tomorrow, the world would start to understand