Chapter Eight: The Man Who Forgot Himself

"The mind doesn't break all at once.It peels.Layer by layer—until nothing underneath remembers what it used to be."

The name Dutch gave me was Carter Vale.

Not a name you'd hear in the ring these days. No highlight reels. No busted nose on old posters. No viral knockouts.

But in the '90s? Carter Vale was a god of violence.

Unbeaten in sanctioned fights. Untouchable in underground wars. Dutch said Vale had something no one else had—something uncanny.

And then, just like that, he vanished.

Dutch didn't say what happened.

Only gave me an address.

And a warning.

"He's still alive. But what you'll find… isn't him anymore."

The facility was tucked off a cracked road in rural Kentucky. A place so far out of the way that even the wind forgot it existed. No signs. No guards. Just a rusted gate and a broken callbox that crackled when I buzzed.

"You here for the fighter?" the nurse asked through static.

"Yeah."

"He doesn't talk much."

"That's fine. I've got more listening to do."

Carter Vale was in Room 214.

He didn't look like a killer. Or a champion. Or a man who once made a crowd scream with the twist of his hips and the snap of his elbow.

He looked… hollow.

Thin arms. Pale skin. Sunken eyes with no lashes.

He sat by a window and stared at the wind moving the trees.

And when I stepped in, he didn't turn.

"You're Damien King," he said.

My breath caught.

"You know me?"

"No," he said. "But you're what I was. I can feel it."

His voice sounded like broken glass stirring in syrup.

Not tired—empty.

Like he'd used up all his feelings years ago and was just moving his mouth out of habit.

"You had the loop," I said.

He nodded.

"You broke it?"

He smiled.

A slow, sad thing.

"I tried."

I sat down across from him. No table between us. Just weight.

"Tell me what happened."

"It wasn't ten," he said. "It was eleven."

That threw me.

"You got a bonus round?"

"No," he said. "I stole it."

Stole it.

That word echoed in my chest.

"I knew the tenth was coming," he continued. "And I didn't want to pass it on. Not to anyone. Not to my brother. Not to my kid. I didn't want them to carry what I carried. So I tried to beat it."

"How?"

He looked up, and for the first time, I saw his eyes shimmer.

"I killed myself."

Silence.

Not the poetic kind. The visceral, dead kind that wraps its hands around your throat.

"But you're here."

"It rewound," he said. "Only halfway. Something snapped. I came back, but not all of me. I was stuck in between. Half in the present. Half in the last death."

He gripped the armrest, knuckles white.

"Every time I blinked, I saw the version of me that didn't come back."

He hadn't broken the loop.

He had fractured himself.

"Eventually," he said, "I couldn't remember which day I was in. My daughter would visit, and I'd ask her about people who didn't exist. I stopped trusting clocks. Time became… wet. Slippery. I couldn't hold onto it."

"Did the Witness come?"

He chuckled, dry and splintered.

"The Witness never left."

He leaned forward.

"It's not just a spectator. It's the ledger. It keeps score. And when you run out of time, it decides where your soul goes."

"You're telling me there's no escape?"

"There's escape," he whispered. "But you won't be the one who makes it."

Those words rang like a bell I didn't want to hear.

I thanked him. He didn't respond.

As I stood to leave, he said one last thing—quietly.

"If he's already dreaming, you're too late."

I didn't ask who.

I knew.

Blaze.

When I got back to the city, it was raining sideways. Thunder that cracked like gunfire. Streets flooded. The kind of night you felt in your bones.

Blaze wasn't at the gym. He wasn't at home. I called. No answer.

So I went to the one place he might've gone.

The old fight warehouse.

The one with the broken mats and the chainlink cages and the memories soaked into the walls.

The place where I saw the Witness the first time.

He was there.

In the ring.

Alone.

Throwing punches that looked like mine.

But not quite right.

Like someone trying to remember a dream they didn't have.

"Blaze," I called out.

He didn't stop.

"Blaze."

He turned slowly.

Eyes blank. Not focused. Not angry. Just… confused.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"Tuesday."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

He nodded.

Then frowned.

"I thought I already fought you today."

My stomach turned cold.

"We didn't."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"But I remember it," he whispered.

He looked at his hands.

"You cut above my eyebrow. I threw a spinning elbow. You ducked. Then the lights flickered."

"That never happened."

He looked at me—and I saw real fear.

"Then where the hell is that memory from?"

I climbed into the ring.

"You need to rest."

"I am resting," he muttered. "I've been resting all day. Or maybe yesterday. I'm not sure."

"It's the loop," I said. "It's bleeding into you."

"Why?"

"Because it's choosing you."

"I don't want it."

"I didn't either."

He slumped onto the canvas.

Rain hammered the roof.

Thunder shook the building.

And then—the lights flickered.

Just once.

But long enough for me to see the shadow in the corner.

It wasn't shaped like either of us.

It was just standing there.

Watching.

Blaze saw it too.

"That thing," he whispered. "It's always near when I forget something."

"That's The Witness."

"What does it want?"

I didn't answer.

Because I still didn't know.

He stood.

Walked toward the corner.

But the shadow vanished.

Like it had never been there at all.

He looked back at me.

"Coach… if I forget who I am, will you remind me?"

"I'll try," I said.

"No. Don't try."

He looked me dead in the eye.

"Promise me."

I nodded.

But inside, I wasn't sure I could.

Because if Carter Vale was right…

Then Blaze wouldn't forget all at once.

He'd peel.

Memory by memory.

Fight by fight.

Until one day, he'd remember a version of reality that never happened.

And believe in it more than the truth.

And The Witness would be there.

Every time.

Taking notes.