Silas had always been a notch above Rof in almost everything. That was a fact Rof had learned to accept early on, understanding that arguing with the truth was just a futile expenditure of energy. Silas's footwork was what Manny, their coach, was trying to instill in Rof — quiet, consistent, and unpredictable. Silas's combinations were straight from the book, yet flexible. He never let his guard down and moved within the boxing ring with the grace of a man who had devoted years to perfecting his body, and even more years mastering it.
However, there was something that Silas lacked, something that only Rof possessed. They were both well aware of it, though neither of them spoke about it. It was like a third entity in the gym — the quickness, the unfolding, the inexplicability that Silas's sensors had recorded but couldn't elucidate. Rof hadn't brought it out during training, nor was he actively seeking it. Manny had advised him to let it come naturally, and Rof was learning to trust this guidance, even though the absence of it sometimes felt like missing a train.
"You're thinking about it," Silas pointed out as they sparred. Light contact was the rule, as laid down by Manny. Silas tapped Rof's guard twice to emphasize his point. "You just drifted away."
"I'm here," Rof responded.
"Your eyes wandered," Silas observed, circling Rof. "That's the giveaway I'd exploit in a real match. Not your feet. Not your hands. It's your eyes that give you away when you're reaching for it." He paused, transitioning from sparring mode to conversational mode with ease. "Can you feel it now?"
"Sometimes, just the edge of it."
"And what does that edge feel like?"
Rof pondered the question. "It's like standing by a window before a storm. You can't see the storm yet, but the air knows it's on its way."
Silas took a moment to process this. "And when it arrives?"
"The window opens," Rof replied. "And everything outside seems to slow down."
Silas fell silent, his face as expressive as it ever got, which wasn't much, but for him, it was a big deal. "For eleven years, I've been trying to replicate that. The reading, the quick scan, recognizing patterns." He glanced at his hands. "It works. It's efficient. But it's...constructed. I built it bit by bit over a decade." He looked up at Rof. "Yours isn't built."
"No," Rof agreed.
"It's innate."
"Yeah."
Silas lowered his hands. "And that's something I couldn't find within thirty seconds. There's no visible point where it begins. It's not a technique you've layered on top of yourself. It's part of your very foundation." He gave Rof a direct look, his typical, candid self. "Whatever was done to you. Whoever did it. They didn't just give you a skill. They changed your entire structure."
The gym fell silent.
Manny was sitting on a stool in a corner, watching them with an unreadable expression.
"Architecture can be studied," Silas remarked. "That's why I'm here."
"I know," Rof responded, raising his hands again. "Let's go."
At midday, Manny ended the session.
Silas packed his bag and announced he'd be back at six the next day. His words were directed at Manny, but they were meant for both of them.
As Silas left, Rof was hydrating near the heavy bags when Manny came over. He stood beside Rof, not too close, just there.
"He's going to document everything," Manny said.
"I know."
"Everything you show him, everything you say about how it feels. He'll have it all categorized and scrutinized by the time he gets home." Manny looked towards the stairs Silas had just ascended. "That's not treachery. That's just who he is."
"I know that too," Rof said.
Manny looked at him. "Then why let him in?"
Rof thought about it. He remembered Silas choosing to stay down in the ring after being knocked out, not because he was unconscious, but because he chose to. He recalled the phone call the night before their fight — Silas admitting that Rof was the first man he'd ever genuinely been curious about. He thought about a man who had spent his career reducing people to systems, and then, upon encountering something that didn't fit the mold, choosing curiosity over pride.
"Because he came to the gym with an honest intention," Rof answered. "Whatever he learns from observing me — I'll learn something from observing him too." He drank some more water. "And because the man I'm going to fight next has something none of us fully comprehend yet. I need every perspective I can get."
Manny nodded slowly, as if he agreed with Rof's logic and had expected this response before Rof even voiced it.
"Go home," Manny commanded. "Eat. Rest. Get some actual sleep, not the kind you've been getting in the chair next to your dad." He pointed a finger at Rof. "I can tell when someone's training on sleep debt. Pay it off tonight."
Rof headed for the stairs.
"Rof."
He halted.
"The man in the gray coat," Manny said cautiously. "Outside the dry cleaner when you arrived this morning. Did you see him?"
Rof played back the morning in his mind. He remembered noticing a man engrossed in his phone outside the dry cleaner next door. He had dismissed the man as a random bystander and moved on.
"I saw him," Rof acknowledged.
"He was there when I arrived at five-thirty," Manny informed him. "He was still there when Silas left just now." His voice stayed calm, but his eyes were serious. "I've seen him twice before. Once outside the arena the night you fought Silas. Once on Broad Street four days ago when I was picking up some supplies."
The basement gym was eerily quiet.
"He's not hiding," Rof stated. Because that was the thing — a man engrossed in his phone outside a dry cleaner wasn't being secretive. He was just there. Consistently, patiently there.
"No," Manny agreed. "He's not hiding. He wants to be seen. Seen but not approached." He caught Rof's gaze. "That's a specific message."
Rof thought about the photograph Vera had shown him at the diner. The man in the expensive coat, captured from afar. The face that was once handsome, now hardened into something more.
Conrad Rael.
He considered telling Manny about Rael, but decided against it. Not because he didn't trust Manny, but out of an abundance of caution. Once information was shared, it could spread, and until he knew what Rael wanted, he wanted to control how far that name traveled.
"I'll handle it," Rof assured him.
Manny looked at him for a moment, then gave a single nod, the nod of a man who knows when to press and when to step back, and has the discipline to discern the difference.
Rof exited the gym.
Outside, the man in the gray coat was gone.
Rof stood on the sidewalk, scanning both directions. Nothing. Just the usual afternoon bustle of the street — a delivery truck, a woman with a stroller, and pigeons arguing over something across the street.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Vera.
"Conrad Rael is having me watched," he said as soon as she picked up.
"I know," Vera replied. "He's been watching you since before your fight against Tank."
Rof felt a tightening in his chest. "You knew."
"I suspected. I confirmed it yesterday." Her voice was sharp and unrepentant. "I wanted to gather all the facts before I told you. Incomplete information can be dangerous with you — you tend to act before you fully understand."
"That's not your decision to make," Rof retorted, keeping his voice steady.
"This time, it was," Vera replied, matching his tone.
A tense silence ensued.
"The complete picture," Rof prompted. "Tell me."
"Not over the phone." She paused. "There's something else. Rael didn't just watch the fights, Rof. He has footage. Not from the crowd — well-placed footage. Multiple angles. He had cameras in the arena both nights." Her voice hardened slightly. "Professional setup. The kind that captures what the eye misses."
Rof stood on the sidewalk.
"He has footage of the speed," he concluded.
"Yes."
"Which means he can study it."
"Which means," Vera added, "he already has."
A delivery truck drove by.
Rof stared down the street where the man in the gray coat had been standing, thinking about being watched before he even knew the game had started. About being labeled as Subject Eight. About a five-year-old boy sitting in a white chair, smiling innocently, unaware that his smile was being recorded for a purpose he couldn't yet comprehend.
"Where should we meet?" he asked.
"I'll come to you," Vera offered. "Tonight. Bring the photograph."
She hung up.
Rof lingered on the street for a moment longer.
Then he looked up — not at anything in particular, just up. A habit he'd developed when he needed perspective beyond street level.
He saw a gray sky and a lone bird crossing it.
He pocketed his phone and headed home.