the recorder was running

The window catch sound. That's what it was. Like something shutting and the air rushing in after. Except it was the front of my own shoulder and I dropped into the chair like a kid who missed a step. Reyes didn't flinch. Just said "there it is" like he'd been waiting for it. I almost laughed. Almost.

Halloran had the recorder visible. Not hidden, not subtle. Sitting there with it on his knee like a notebook, like he was already writing the story before the fight's even made. "See you in December, mate." Didn't look up. Didn't need to. He knows exactly where I am. Three places. Gone. Bumped down while I was doing mobility drills and watching the envelope on the counter. Somewhere a guy I haven't fought yet moved up because I was busy grieving something he never even knew existed.

I opened it. Had to. Twenty minutes ago maybe, sitting on the bench with the kitchen light the only thing on. The questions are heavier than I thought. Not the results — the questions themselves. The way they sit there. Twelve weeks. Twelve weeks to answer things my body might not have answers for and I sat on the couch this afternoon and took a photo like I was fine. Like the light was just right and the tee was clean and none of it was happening.

I look relaxed in it. That's the part I can't stop looking at. How easy it looks. How little it cost me to smile.

Briggs doesn't know what's coming. That's the only thing that keeps me on this side of functional.