The storm broke over London just past midnight, rain hammering rooftops in a relentless, metallic rhythm. Prince lay awake in the dark of his flat, hands behind his head, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling as thunder rolled like distant artillery. Sleep wouldn't come. Couldn't. His body was exhausted, but his mind was wired, sharp, alive with the kind of restless energy that made him feel like he was standing on the edge of something vast and dangerous.
The fight announcement had gone public earlier that day.
RUÍZ VS. THE SOVEREIGN.
KING OF THE CROSSROADS.
Social media exploded. Commentators argued. Fans speculated. Doubters multiplied. The world had opinions about a man most of them had never seen throw a punch. Prince scrolled through the chaos long enough to feel the weight of it settle into his chest like wet concrete. He powered the phone off and tossed it aside.
He wasn't afraid. But he felt hunted.
The rain intensified, drumming against the windows with manic fury. Prince exhaled slowly and sat up, elbows on his knees, palms pressed against his face. The storm outside mirrored the one twisting inside him. He needed air. Movement. A reason not to drown in his own thoughts.
He grabbed a hoodie and stepped out into the hallway.
The corridor lights flickered as he descended the stairs, the building groaning with the wind. Outside, the night was soaked and violent. Cars hissed through puddles. Neon signs blurred into smeared streaks of color. The city felt raw, stripped open, honest in a way daylight rarely allowed.
Prince pulled his hood low and began walking.
He didn't have a destination. He let the streets choose for him. Water seeped into his trainers, the cold biting through fabric. His breath fogged in the air. The storm swallowed sound, leaving nothing but the roar of rain and the thud of his heartbeat.
He ended up near Brixton Market empty at this hour except for a few shuttered stalls and an old man sweeping rainwater out of his doorway. Prince paused under an awning, watching the man work. There was something almost sacred about it this quiet persistence, this stubborn refusal to surrender to the storm.
"You're out late," the man said without looking up.
"Couldn't sleep."
"You and half the world," the man muttered, pushing the broom across the concrete. "Storm's stirring up everything people thought they buried."
Prince nodded. "Feels like that."
The man's eyes flicked at him, sharp and knowing. "You're that fighter, ain't you? The one on the posters."
Prince hesitated. Then nodded.
The man studied him for a long second, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. "What you running from, boy?"
Prince blinked. "Who says I'm running?"
"Everyone runs," the man said, returning to his broom. "Question is whether you stop when the running stops mattering."
Prince didn't know how to answer that. He simply turned and continued walking.
By the time he reached the gym, the storm had softened to a cold drizzle. The front windows of Soho Boxing Club glowed faintly, the kind of light that shouldn't have been on this late. Prince frowned.
Someone was inside.
He opened the door quietly. The familiar smell of leather, sweat, and disinfectant greeted him, grounding him instantly. The lights were dimmed, leaving most of the gym in shadow.
Footsteps echoed from the ring.
"Couldn't sleep either, huh?" Morgan's gravelly voice drifted through the dim.
Prince approached, pulling his hood back. "Storm's loud."
"That why you're soaked or because you forgot umbrellas exist?"
Prince smirked. "Didn't think about it."
Morgan stood by the ring, arms crossed, a towel draped over his shoulder. He looked tired more than usual. His knee brace peeked from beneath his sweatpants, metal gleaming under the lights.
"Figured you might show up," Morgan said. "Big fights have a way of chewing at a man's bones long before the bell rings."
Prince leaned against the ropes. "It's not the fight that's got me up. It's…" He paused. "Everything around it."
Morgan nodded like he already knew. "Noise."
"Yeah."
"Noise don't matter. Wind don't matter. Storm don't matter. Men matter. And you matter more than the one they're putting in front of you."
Prince didn't respond. Not yet.
Morgan tossed him a pair of wraps. "Come on. If we're both awake, might as well make use of the hours."
Prince wrapped his hands, the rhythm calming something inside him. He stepped into the ring. Morgan lifted the mitts, and the first punch cracked through the quiet like a gunshot.
They worked in near silence.
Jab. Cross. Slip. Hook.
Prince felt the storm inside him align with the rhythm of the training. Each punch chipped away at the weight on his chest. Each movement steadied him. Sweat mixed with rainwater on his skin.
Morgan lowered the pads after a long combination. "You're angry."
Prince wiped his brow. "Focused."
"Focused ain't the word for what you are right now." Morgan's voice lowered. "Talk."
Prince paced the ring, shaking out his arms. "I'm not worried about Ruiz. I'm worried about… becoming the wrong version of myself."
Morgan's eyes narrowed. "Which version is that?"
"The one who fights because he's scared of losing. Not because he loves to win."
Morgan stepped closer. "Listen to me, Prince. Every great fighter battles two opponents: the one in front of him and the one inside him. The one inside you? That's the one you can't afford to ignore."
Prince swallowed hard.
Morgan continued. "You're not that scared kid anymore. You're a man with a name people are starting to whisper. You earned that. Don't let fear rewrite your story."
Prince exhaled slowly. "Then what do I fight for now?"
Morgan smiled faintly. "For the man you're trying to become. And the boy you promised you'd make proud."
The silence between them deepened.
Then the gym door opened.
Footsteps. Fast. Anxious.
It was Elijah one of the younger fighters, barely twenty, wiry, fierce, all heart and little technique. His hoodie was half-zipped, hair plastered to his forehead from the rain.
"Prince!" he gasped. "You need to come outside. Now."
Morgan stiffened. "What's going on?"
Elijah swallowed. "It's Ruiz's people. They're outside. They're looking for you."
Prince froze.
Not fear.
Not surprise.
Something colder.
He followed Elijah to the street. The rain fell in steady sheets now, streetlights reflecting in the puddles like broken stars.
A black SUV idled across the road, windows tinted, engine humming like a resting beast. Three men stood beside it big, broad, unmistakably fighters. The middle one stepped forward, face half-hidden under a cap.
"You Prince Omari?" he called out.
Prince didn't flinch. "Who's asking?"
The man smirked. "Ruiz sends his regards."
It wasn't a greeting.
It was a message.
A warning.
A test.
Elijah shifted nervously beside Prince. Morgan stood in the doorway of the gym, jaw tight.
Prince stepped into the rain, meeting the man halfway. "If Ruiz has something to say, he can say it himself."
"Consider this a preview," the man said, drawing closer. "Ruiz doesn't think you're ready. He thinks you're hype. He thinks you're soft."
Prince's jaw tensed. "Is that so?"
"Oh yeah." The man leaned in. "And he thinks when he hits you, he'll break something important."
Prince didn't move. Didn't blink. "Tell Ruiz he should worry about what breaks when I hit back."
The man chuckled. "We'll see." He tapped Prince's chest lightly disrespect, deliberate and sharp. "Don't be late to the press conference tomorrow. Cameras need to see the fear in your eyes."
Prince's hand clamped around the man's wrist before he could pull away.
Hard.
Firm.
Unmistakable.
Prince leaned close. "Look in my eyes right now. Do they look afraid to you?"
The man's smirk faltered.
Prince released him.
The three men climbed back into the SUV. The engine roared, and the vehicle peeled away, tires hissing on wet asphalt.
Elijah exhaled shakily. "Bruv… they really came down here like it's a movie."
Morgan stepped beside Prince. "This is how big fights go. Intimidation. Games. Pushes and prods."
Prince's heartbeat steadied, his voice low. "They think they can unsettle me."
"They're trying," Morgan said. "Don't let them succeed."
Prince turned toward the gym but paused.
Lightning flashed overhead.
Thunder cracked.
And something inside him clicked into place.
He spoke without looking back.
"I'm done running."
Morgan nodded once. "Good. Because now the real war begins."
Prince stepped back into the gym, the storm at his heels, fire in his chest, and a new truth forming with every breath.
Ruiz wasn't just an opponent anymore.
He was a line Prince intended to cross.
A throne he intended to claim.
And the world storm or no storm was about to learn what a Sovereign truly was