2020 – Two Months After Unifying the Title)
Record: 12-1 (9 KOs)
The dust from the Monroe victory refused to settle. It hung in the air of Kyon's life, a glittering, oppressive glitter. He was no longer a contender, a challenger, a redemption story. He was the Unified Champion. The man who held two of the four major belts. The word "undisputed" began to appear in every sentence written about him, a destination he had not yet reached but was now expected to claim.
The first change was the silence of The Crucible. It was no longer a sanctuary; it was a museum. Fighters he didn't know, young hungry pros and veterans looking for a taste of magic, would appear, hoping to spar, to watch, to absorb something. They treated him with a hushed reverence that felt like a cage. He could no longer lose himself in the simple, angry rhythm of the heavy bag without feeling observed, assessed. The solitude that had forged him was now a commodity, constantly interrupted.
Thorne felt it too. The old man's presence, once the defining axis of the gym, became more rigid, more protective. He started turning people away with a growl, but the pressure was constant. The work continued, but it was different. The focus was no longer on building something new, but on maintaining—a far more insidious and subtle challenge. They worked on shoring up weaknesses Monroe had exposed, on refining the "phantom trachea punch" into a repeatable weapon, on footwork drills to combat the grinding, pressure-fighting style of the IBF champion, a Ukrainian brick wall named Viktor "The Cossack" Drozd.
But the fire of creation was banked. Now it was the methodical work of a master craftsman preserving a masterpiece. Kyon found his mind wandering during roadwork, during repetition drills. He'd think of the abstract, worried line of Alana's mouth when he'd described Monroe's choking gasp. He'd think of the piece of notebook paper in his drawer with Eleanor's phone number, the last text from her a simple Thinking of you he hadn't known how to answer. The world outside the ropes was becoming populated, complex, demanding.
The money, now a river flowing into the accounts Priya managed, created its own strange gravity. Hayes, of course, had plans. Big, loud, expensive plans. He secured a long-term, multi-million dollar endorsement deal with a luxury watchmaker—a tasteful, "artist-athlete" campaign that Kyon reluctantly agreed to after Lena approved the aesthetic. The photo shoot in a stark Swiss studio felt like another fight, a battle against his own discomfort as they positioned his bruised hands next to gleaming, delicate timepieces.
"You're not selling the watch," the artistic director, a painfully thin Frenchman, insisted. "You are selling the tension. The brutality and the precision. The violence and the grace. C'est magnifique!"
Kyon held his body as instructed, a living sculpture of contrast. He felt like a specimen.
The first real storm hit when Hayes presented the "undisputed roadmap." It was a literal, glossy Gantt chart.
"Phase One: The Viktor Drozd fight. IBF mandatory. Nasty style for you, pure pressure, but we get it done. Late spring, maybe June. Phase Two: WBO mandatory, probably against the winner of the Ortiz-Fielding eliminator. That's a trickier style, more boxer-puncher. We target early fall. Phase Three: Undisputed unification, end of the year, massive global pay-per-view, Saudi Arabia or Las Vegas, career-high payday." Hayes beamed, tapping the chart. "By New Year's Eve, you're the undisputed king, the face of boxing, and financially set for ten lifetimes."
Kyon stared at the chart. His life, distilled into boxes and arrows. A product rollout schedule.
"That's three fights in nine months," he said, his voice flat.
"The price of greatness, kid! The division is hot. Momentum is everything. We strike while the iron is white-hot!"
"The body needs to heal. The mind needs to breathe."
Hayes waved a dismissive hand. "You're 25! You're in your absolute prime! This is when you do this! Look at the old greats—they fought all the time!"
Thorne, who had been leaning against the wall of Kyon's loft, arms crossed, spoke up. "The old greats also burned out by thirty and spent the rest of their lives slurring their words. The boy's right. Drozd in June is fine. Then we see. One fight at a time."
"One fight at a time is amateur thinking, Marcus!" Hayes snapped, his salesman's patience fraying. "This is the big leagues! We're building an empire! You think Solano is sitting on his hands? He's trying to screw up the Drozd mandatory with lawsuits, he's throwing money at the WBO to fast-track his guy, Javier Mendez, back into position. We have a window, and we have to move!"
The mention of Solano was a cold splash of reality. The promoter, though beaten in the purse bid, was far from gone. He was a specter in the boardrooms, using his influence to sand the gears. The fight wasn't just in the ring anymore; it was in the sanctioning body meetings, the legal filings, the whisper campaigns in the press. Kyon was learning that being champion meant defending your position from all sides, often with tools you didn't possess.
"Drozd in June," Kyon repeated, finality in his tone. "Nothing after is agreed. We see how my body is. We see how my head is."
Hayes looked like he'd swallowed a lemon, but he nodded. The first battle of the new reign was won, but the war for control of Kyon Wilson's destiny had been declared.
The pressure found its way into his relationship with Alana in subtle, insidious ways. She was a grounding force, but her world was also demanding. Her Chicago show, "The Anatomy of Impact," was a critical success but a modest financial one. She returned to Detroit both exhilarated and exhausted, the gap between artistic fulfillment and practical survival suddenly very real to her.
One night, over takeout in her studio, she was quiet, picking at her food.
"What is it?" he asked.
She sighed, putting her fork down. "The gallery in Chicago… they loved the work. They want me for a bigger group show next year. But they can't offer an advance. And the studio rent here…" She looked around the sunlit space, now cluttered with the new, larger canvases she was dreaming up. "I might need to downsize. Find something… smaller."
Kyon didn't hesitate. "I'll pay the rent. For as long as you need."
Her head snapped up, her green eyes flashing not with gratitude, but with a defensive heat. "No."
"Alana, it's nothing to me. I have more money than I know what to do with. Let me do this."
"That's exactly why I can't," she said, her voice tight. "I won't be a line item in the Phantom Empire's budget, Kyon. My art has to stand on its own. It has to be mine."
"This isn't about ownership. It's about support. You supported me. You saw me."
"And you see me! That's the support I need! Not a check!" She stood up, pacing. "Don't you get it? Your world is trying to buy everything—fights, legacies, time. I can't let it buy me. Or my work. It would poison it."
He felt stung, frustrated. He was trying to solve a problem, to use this new, baffling power for good. But she was right. He was approaching it like a transaction. "So what do we do?" he asked, the helplessness in his voice surprising them both.
She stopped pacing, her shoulders slumping. "I don't know. I'll figure it out. I always have. I just… I needed to say it to you. Out loud."
It was their first true impasse. A wall built from his wealth and her pride. They slept apart that night, a new, cold distance in the loft.
The next morning, he went to The Crucible early, seeking the clarity of simple pain. Thorne was already there, sipping bitter coffee from a thermos.
"Girl trouble," Thorne stated, not a question.
Kyon grunted, starting his wraps.
"Money," Thorne guessed.
"Yeah."
Thorne took a slow sip. "When you have nothing, the world is simple. You fight for food, for shelter, for respect. When you have everything, you fight to keep from drowning in it. It's a harder fight. No one trains you for it."
"You're not helping," Kyon muttered, punching the heavy bag with more force than necessary.
"I'm not here to help. I'm here to tell you the terrain. You're in the swamp now, champion. Every step sinks. You have to move lighter."
Move lighter. The advice followed him out of the gym. He didn't go home. He got in his car and drove. For hours. He ended up across the state line, in Ohio, then south. The digital map on his screen was meaningless. He was navigating by a deeper, older pull.
He found himself in Cincinnati as the afternoon light was fading. He parked a block away from the diner. He didn't go in. He watched.
He saw her through the window, refilling coffee for an elderly couple. She moved with an efficient, weary grace. She laughed at something the old man said, and the sound, though muffled by glass and distance, was genuine. It was the laugh of a woman living a hard, honest life, moment by moment. There was no Gantt chart here. No empire. Just the next cup of coffee, the next check, the next day.
He saw the weight she carried. Not the weight of crowns or expectations, but the weight of years lost, of regret, of a quiet, persistent hope. She was moving light because she had to. She had no other choice.
He got out of the car and walked in. The bell jingled. She looked up, and this time, the shock on her face was followed by a warmth that flooded her eyes, melting the perpetual caution.
"Kyon."
He took a seat at the counter. "Coffee, please."
She poured it, her hand steady. "What are you doing here?"
"I was driving. Thinking."
"About?"
"Weight. How to move light."
She leaned her elbows on the counter, a gesture of intimacy in the public space. "And what did you figure out?"
"That I've been trying to use money like a hammer. To nail things down, to fix things, to build walls. You… you just carry the cup. You don't fight the weight of it. You just balance it."
She smiled, a sad, beautiful thing. "You get a PhD in philosophy from getting punched in the head?"
"Something like that." He took a sip of the terrible, bitter coffee. "I'm sorry. About the rent. I wasn't trying to buy you. I was trying to… remove an obstacle. Because I can. But it's your obstacle. Not mine."
She nodded, accepting the apology. "It's a big one."
"Can I… help you look? For a new space? Not pay for it. Just look. With you."
Her eyes softened. "That… that would be okay. That would be good."
They talked for an hour, through her break. Not about boxing, or art, but about the cost of eggs, about her sore feet, about the nice regular who always tipped in dollar coins. The mundane, unpoetic texture of her life. It was the most real conversation he'd had in months.
When he left, she came around the counter and hugged him. A real, full-bodied, mother's hug. He stiffened for a second, then sank into it, feeling the solid, fragile reality of her. It was another kind of weight, but one that grounded him instead of pulling him under.
"You call me," she whispered into his shoulder. "Not just when you're driving. Okay?"
"Okay."
The drive back to Detroit was done in a deep, reflective quiet. The swamp was still there, but he felt like he'd found a few solid stones to step on.
He went to Alana's studio. She was working, covered in a fine mist of blue paint. He didn't speak. He walked over to her, took her paint-speckled face in his hands, and kissed her, deeply, slowly. She melted into it, the tension of the previous night dissolving.
When they parted, she searched his eyes. "Where did you go?"
"I went to see how to carry a cup," he said.
She didn't understand the reference, but she understood the change in him. The frantic, pressured edge was gone. He was just present.
"I'm looking at a shared studio space in the Fisher Building tomorrow," she said. "It's smaller. But the light is good. And there are other artists. It might be… good for me. To not be so alone with it."
"Can I come with you? Just to look."
She smiled, a real, relieved smile. "Yes."
The Drozd camp began in earnest. The Cossack was a nightmare style-wise: a relentless, mauling forward march, inhuman stamina, and a skull that seemed impervious to pain. He didn't try to outbox you; he tried to drown you in the deep waters of the later rounds.
Thorne's strategy was bleak and brutal: "You have to break his will before his body breaks yours. You can't out-tough him. You have to out-science him. Make him pay for every step. Jab his face off. Hurt him to the body early. Make him question his one certainty—that he can walk through anything."
The sparring was hell. They brought in giant, sloppy pressure fighters, men who only knew how to come forward. Kyon's job was not to knock them out, but to pepper them, to slice them up, to make every advance a painful, bloody ordeal. It was meticulous, cruel work. His knuckles were constantly raw. His shoulders ached from the relentless jabbing. It was the opposite of the beautiful, surgical artistry of the Monroe fight. This was trench warfare.
One afternoon, after a particularly vicious sparring session where he'd been cornered and took several hard, thudding shots to the ribs, Kyon sat on the ring apron, gasping. Thorne handed him water.
"You're thinking too much," Thorne said. "You're trying to paint a masterpiece against a man who wants to throw mud on the canvas. Sometimes, you just have to throw mud back."
"I'm not a mud-thrower."
"Against Drozd, you have to be. Or he'll bury you in it."
That night, bruises flowering on his ribs, Kyon lay beside Alana in the dark. "I hate this fight," he whispered, the admission shocking him.
She turned to him, her hand finding his in the dark. "Why?"
"It's ugly. It's not about being better. It's about being meaner. More stubborn. It feels… regressive."
"Maybe it's not about moving forward," she said, her voice sleepy but clear. "Maybe it's about holding ground. You've claimed this beautiful, high place. Now you have to defend it from the people who want to drag you off it. That's a different kind of fight. A dirtier one."
He thought about that. Holding ground. Not for the glory of conquest, but for the integrity of the place itself. The crown wasn't just a reward; it was a fortress. And Viktor Drozd was the battering ram at the gate.
The promotional tour for Drozd was a grim affair. The Ukrainian, through a translator, spoke in monotone threats about "breaking the pretty champion's soul." Kyon, tired of silence, decided on a new approach. He spoke simply, directly.
"You're a great pressure fighter. The best. I respect your will. But your will is not a strategy. On June 12th, I will show you the difference."
It wasn't trash talk. It was a diagnosis. Drozd's stoic mask flickered for just a second—a crack of uncertainty. He was used to being feared or dismissed. He wasn't used to being clinically dissected.
Two weeks before the fight, as they were doing media in New York, Kyon got a call from Priya, his financial manager. Her voice was uncharacteristically tense.
"Kyon, we have a problem. A significant one. The IRS has flagged your accounts for an audit. And… there's a civil suit being filed. A former sparring partner from four years ago is claiming you caused him permanent brain damage during a session and is suing for twenty million."
Kyon's blood ran cold. "Is it legitimate?"
"The audit is harassment, but it will be a massive, time-consuming headache. The lawsuit is frivolous—the waiver he signed is ironclad—but it will play terribly in the media, especially right now. This is a coordinated attack. This has Rafe Solano's fingerprints all over it."
Solano. Striking from the shadows, not at the title, but at the foundation. Trying to drain his focus, his resources, his spirit before he even stepped into the ring with Drozd.
Kyon stood in his hotel room, looking out at the glittering, indifferent city. The swamp was rising. The terrain was shifting under his feet. He wasn't just fighting Viktor Drozd anymore. He was fighting an invisible army of lawyers, accountants, and ghosts from his past.
He felt the weight of the crown, heavier than ever. It wasn't gold. It was lead. And he had to find a way to move light with it, or it would crush him into the dirt he was now being forced to fight in.