Chapter Six: The One Who Watches

"You don't choose the fight.

The fight chooses you.

But someone… is watching."

It started with the reflection.

I was brushing my teeth in the gym locker room, staring blankly into the mirror, foam bubbling at my lips, eyes sunken from another sleepless night.

And then I saw it—just behind me.

Movement.

A ripple in the air. Like heat distortion. But colder. No source. No shape. Just a subtle bend in reality, as if someone was leaning forward to whisper into my ear.

I spun around.

Nothing.

This wasn't the first time I'd seen it.

But it was the clearest.

The figure had always lived in the corner of my vision—blurred by motion, tucked behind blinks. After each rewind, I'd feel its presence like static crawling over my skin.

But now?

Now it was staring back.

I kept my mouth shut at first. Who would believe me?

A washed-up MMA fighter losing his grip on time and reality?

Even Dutch, as steady as he was, would probably say I needed rest, rehab, or something stronger than caffeine and adrenaline.

Still… I needed to know.

I waited until the gym was empty that night.

Just me, Dutch, and the sound of a speed bag ticking like a clock with a temper.

He was wiping down the ring ropes when I asked.

"Dutch… you ever see anything during your fights?"

He looked up. His expression unreadable.

"Define 'anything,' D."

"Like… someone watching. But not in the crowd. Closer. Behind you. Like a shadow you didn't cast."

He froze.

Just for a second.

Then went back to wiping.

"You've seen it too."

It wasn't a question.

It was a confirmation.

And for the first time since the loop started, I didn't feel alone.

Just terrified.

Dutch sat on the edge of the ring. He looked older than I'd ever seen him. Like saying the words was dragging years out of him.

"Back in '98. Underground fight in Jersey. No weight class. No gloves. No time limit. It was me and a guy named Luther Cain."

"I took a beating. Worse than I'd ever had. And just when I thought I was about to go out, I felt… a pause. Like the world hiccupped. And then I was back on my feet. Blood still in my mouth. But time rewound."

My heart stopped.

"You had it too," I said.

"Had. Past tense." His voice went hollow. "I used it three times. Then I saw it."

"What is it?"

Dutch didn't answer immediately. He just stared into the ring, like it was a memory trying to bite him.

"We called it The Witness."

"Who's 'we'?"

He didn't answer that either.

He told me that every fighter who experienced the loop eventually saw it. First in mirrors. Then in dreams. Then in the moments between life and death.

A cloaked presence. No face. No sound. Just there.

Watching.

Judging.

"Not everyone sees it," Dutch said. "Only the ones who push it too far. The ones who get greedy."

"What does it want?"

He chuckled, bitter and sharp.

"Who said it wants anything? Maybe it's just recording. Taking notes. Maybe it's what lets us rewind in the first place."

"And after the tenth time?"

"Then it follows."

I felt sick.

Not just from the memory.

But from the fact that… it was happening faster now.

I'd used the loop ten times. Broken it once. Pushed it when I should've quit.

And now, The Witness wasn't hiding anymore.

It was approaching.

The next night, it got bolder.

I was in the ring alone, doing shadow drills. Basic stuff. Southpaw shift, inside leg feint, counter jab. Moving slow. Breathing controlled.

Then the lights flickered.

Just for a second.

And I saw it—outside the ropes. In the far corner.

Not a blur. Not a shadow.

A full silhouette.

Taller than me. Wrapped in something black and flowing, like robes made of smoke and gravity.

It had no face. But I felt it watching.

No breath. No blink. No weight to its steps.

Still, the floor groaned.

I froze mid-combo. My gloves felt like stone.

"What do you want?" I asked, voice cracking.

No answer.

Not in words.

But something moved inside me. Like a string tightening around my spine.

Then it lifted a hand. Long, skeletal fingers stretched forward.

And pointed at the door.

I ran.

Outside, I threw up on the gravel. My stomach heaved with bile and fear. The night air clawed into my lungs like ice.

That thing… whatever it was…

It didn't attack.

It didn't speak.

It invited.

I didn't go home. Couldn't. I drove around for hours. Stopped at three gas stations and sat in the car, engine idling, hands clenched on the wheel.

The image burned into my skull.

It wasn't just a hallucination.

It wasn't some PTSD ghost from my father's beatings.

It was real.

And it knew me.

At 3:42 a.m., I drove back to Dutch's.

Found him in the office, sipping whiskey with the lights off.

"It showed itself," I said.

He didn't ask what.

Just nodded and slid a drawer open.

Pulled out an old VHS tape.

"What's this?"

"Footage. You're not the first."

We watched the tape on a dusty TV. Black-and-white. Grainy. It was a sparring session in this very gym—two fighters I didn't recognize. One of them was bleeding hard, limp in the corner.

And then—pause.

The image glitched.

Like someone tapped the VCR, but no one had moved.

And in one frame, just for a flicker—there it was.

Standing in the ring.

The Witness.

"That fighter?" Dutch said, pointing at the man who'd been knocked out. "He rewound five times. Kept winning. Started seeing the thing after his sixth. After the ninth… he couldn't sleep."

"What happened to him?"

"No one knows. He never used his tenth. He just vanished."

I leaned forward, rewound the tape, played it again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, I saw it sooner. Clearer.

Like it wanted to be seen.

"Why does it show itself?" I asked. "Why not stay hidden?"

Dutch drained the last of his whiskey.

"Maybe it's testing you. Or maybe it's waiting for something."

"Like what?"

"Like the moment you decide… if you'll pass it on."

That line stuck with me.

All day. Into the night. Into my sleep, where my dreams dripped.

I was fighting again—except it wasn't me. It was Blaze.

Bloodied. Screaming. And standing across from him?

The Witness.

Only this time, it had a face.

Mine.

I jolted awake with a scream caught in my throat and sweat pouring down my back.

Blaze.

The kid had always been intense. But lately?

He was obsessed.

Watching my tapes frame by frame. Mimicking my combos in the mirror. Talking to himself mid-spar like he was explaining tactics to someone invisible.

I found him in the gym the next morning—alone. Hands wrapped. Shirt soaked.

He didn't hear me come in.

He was staring at the same locker-room mirror I'd seen the figure in.

Staring into it.

And smiling.

"Blaze?" I called out.

He blinked. Turned. His eyes were red.

Not from crying.

From something else.

Fatigue. Pressure. Or maybe something already inside him.

"Coach," he said. "You ever get the feeling that someone's… watching you fight?"

My chest turned to stone.

"Yeah," I said. "I have."

"I think I like it," he whispered.