Rain hammered the ground like war drums.
Kids brawled like the end of the world handed out juice boxes. Fists cracked through the air. Some howled in chaos; others, in glee. But none of that mattered.
My eyes were locked on Tommy.
My shirt was half-untucked, and the back of my shoulder throbbed faintly. Redness was starting to show where that metal rod slammed into me earlier heat radiated off it like an old bruise waking up. It felt like a warning flare more than pain. I didn't care. I'd taken worse.
His school shirt was half-untucked, sleeves rolled, one shoe untied. Mud caked his shins. His lip was split, his nose with small cuts maybe from a past fight, from the fist he took head-on. That twisted grin like he enjoyed the blood in his mouth still hadn't left.
We circled each other like two beasts who'd clashed before, knowing this wouldn't end pretty. No flashy kicks. No taekwondo flair. Just instinct raw and sharpened.
I clenched my fists.
His blood fresh from a cut on his lip and arm mixed with the rain on my skin. He grinned that same damn grin he always had. The kind of smile you'd expect on someone holding a knife, not a pencil case.
I mean yeah, I fight. I wrestle my brother for fun. I love the thrill.
But this guy? This bitch fights to hurt. For real. You could see it in his eyes. He wasn't in it for dominance. He was in it for damage.
Tommy and I had history. None of it good. Fights at school. Fights outside. We'd thrown fists, taken elbows, exchanged knees. We'd both ended up with bruises that told stories, and cuts that didn't.
We knew each other's style. We'd adapted to each other like predators sharing the same hunting ground. I knew when he was going to fake low. He knew I'd bait his high kick.
But in a dirty fight? Knowing doesn't always save you. Sometimes, to land the hit you gotta take one. You time your pain like a counterpunch.
And we both knew that too.
This time had to end differently.
Tommy wiped blood from his lip, dragged his middle finger across it, then licked it slowly before flipping it at me.
"Don't hold back. Don't you flinch in this rain, you motherfucker!" he roared.
I swept my wet hair back with my hand, calm. Ready. This wasn't for show. It was for closure.
He went for a thick wooden stick lying in the mud. Swung it hard.
I blocked with my left, grabbed his wrist, twisted. Kneed him in the thigh. He grunted.
I yanked the stick sideways SNAP. Cracked it over my knee. Swung the shorter half into his leg.
It connected hard, but he took it like a freak.
Then, he jumped.
Still holding my wrists, he shoved both boots into my chest trying to spring upward into a chokehold.
His weight slammed into me, knocking the wind out of my lungs. Then he grabbed something brick-sized, heavy from the mud. Slammed it into my chest. Again. Again. I shielded my face, felt the impact echo through my ribs.
I saw it coming.
"Not today."
I headbutted his thigh.
"CLACK."
He loosened.
And yeah, somewhere in there, he tried pinning me with BJJ legs wrapping like pythons. I don't care if it's taekwondo, capoeira, aikido. BJJ ( Brazilian jiu-jitsu ) eats them alive. Tommy was trained. A full-on BJJ specialist triangle chokes, arm-bars, positional kills. Once he locked in, fights ended. Simple. So no, I wasn't screwing with that.
That's why we both said screw the styles. No stance, no salute just raw brutality. Animal instinct dressed in street rules.
I let go. He flipped mid-air, landed like some hero-wannabe, crouched, arms spread. He landed in a crouch, hair slicked back with one hand, grinning like he was high on violence. Veins bulged in his neck like something was about to snap.
"That all you got, Dave?" he mocked.
I tilted my head.
"I've got better jumps. You wanna see?"
He charged.
I charged.
My fist aimed for his jaw. His fist aimed for my ribs.
This time, I let him come in too close.
Rainbreaker combo.
He kicked. I blocked with my thigh, caught his leg, twisted him sideways. Mud made him lose footing. I hip-tossed him straight down into the sludge, raised the broken stick and cracked it across his ribs. One more elbow to his collarbone for good measure.
Then I stepped back.
I knew Tommy's ground game could eat most styles alive. Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu didn't care how pretty your stance looked. Once he locked you in, you either tapped, passed out, or got something snapped.
That's why I didn't stay there.
Because I don't fight to overpower. I fight to control.
I absorb what I can.
Block what I must.
Then I drag them into my pace slow, brutal, and personal.
Tommy fought like a wildfire.
I fought like a fuse.
Slow burn. Then boom.
I stayed standing. Breathing slow. Only bruised on my forearms and thigh. The rest? Clean. Deliberate.
Tommy?
He was crouched again. Chest rattling. One eye swelling. Still grinning.
Then he stood.
We stepped forward at the same time.
One more exchange.
His fist for my ribs. Mine for his jaw.
We were past talking. Past thinking. Just instinct and muscle memory now.
And right as the gap vanished
Snap.
I was six again.
What you become isn't written in your blood. It's shaped subtly, relentlessly by experience and exposure.
The mind absorbs more than we realize. You don't grow up with a clean slate; you grow up with echoes.
What people say. What they don't. What they do when they think you're not watching.
I used to think I just learned things naturally. Looking back? Most of it wasn't natural, it was adaptive.
Even in first grade, I didn't act until I understood the terrain. I observed. I measured. I didn't flinch.
Not because I was scared. Because I was calculating.
I was the older brother. No breakdowns. No backing off.
And Dad made sure of that.
"If you're not alert, someone will always try to turn you into the punching bag," he told me after I described a kindergarten kid stabbing another with a pencil.
He wasn't shocked. Just nodded.
"You complain later. Solve it first yourself. Tit for tat, son. That's how the world works."
Dad had a tactician's mind, sharp and deliberate. He wasn't military, but he thought like one. His rules weren't harsh they were habits. And yeah, they helped in the long run.
You behave, you eat well, you stay sharp.
Not some movie-style boot camp just terrace jogs with a backpack, slow pushups before cereal, and playful wrestling drills on the carpet. Structure, but wrapped in routine.
My younger brother? He loved it. Laughed during the workouts. We sparred constantly.
It wasn't violence. It was rhythm.
It was 2006. First grade. New school branch. The kind where everything still smelled like new paint.
I remembered walking in for the entrance exam. The field outside looked massive. Swings creaked near the staff room. That sunlit ground felt like where a hundred memories would eventually unfold.
I passed, of course.
Day one. I stepped in.
The classroom had five rows of desks. Light brown wood. Teacher's desk on the front right. Big wall clock dead center. It looked like it was counting down 3, 2, 1… boom.
Some kids were near the windows, tossing paper planes. Others flicked chalk like missiles. A few familiar faces Tanya, Krish. Some of the LKG crew. A few weren't here. Probably shuffled into other sections.
I chose the third row, third column. The middle of everything. I liked observing.
Ali sat next to me. Quiet type. Always folded his hands when speaking to teachers. We nodded at each other.
Then the door slammed.
A boy ran in, breathless.
And behind him... Rehane.
Taller than most. Walked like he had weights in his shoes. He scanned the room like a hawk.
I recognized him instantly. He was a senior back in kindergarten. Tried pushing us around once. We had a silent face-off back then.
Now here he was again.
I muttered, "Mosquitoes follow you everywhere, huh?"
He locked eyes with me.
Then he spotted Ali.
Easy prey.
He walked straight over.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Why do you want to know?" I stood.
A kid hissed, "Ooooooh." Another whispered, "Here we go…"
Rehane narrowed his eyes. His younger brother, Sameer, once messed with me near the library block.
Didn't end well for him.
I thought, If you haven't changed, Rehane, I'm gonna break you worse than I broke Sameer.
Break time hit.
Rehane returned. This time, with two older kids.
They walked in like they owned the place. Opened lunch boxes. Tossed food.
"Ew, what's this? Rotten eggs?" one said.
"Smells like sewer soup," No one laughed but Felipe laughed.
Rehane grinned, zeroed in on Ali.
"Why you sitting like that, aunty-boy? Say something!"
Ali looked down.
Felipe from the back, class clown, snorted.
"And round two begins."
I stood.
"He's with me."
They surrounded me. One on each side.
Most of my classmates, most of whom I knew from LKG, began to stand. They didn't say anything, but their eyes followed.
One even asked, "You sure?"
I just said, "Yeah. I got this."
The pin was classic. But I knew space. I'd wrestled with my brother. Played kabaddi with the neighbor kids.
First boy grabbed my wrist. The other pushed.
I spun left. Yanked my arm free. Shoulder-checked the first guy into a desk.
"CLANG!"
Second one froze.
Rehane charged. Wild swing.
I ducked. Grabbed his collar. Slammed him against the wall.
Poster peeled. Clock tilted.
He shoved me.
I let him.
"Done?" I asked.
No response. The room was quiet.
Ali looked up. Eyes wide. Still rattled, but breathing.
Felipe? Silent.
Some kids clapped.
I sat down. Still on the surface. But inside? Pure adrenaline.
My chest still stung from Tommy's boots. My forearm throbbed where the stick hit, but I stayed upright.
And Rehane?
He wouldn't forget this.
But neither would I.
The clock was tilted, but it kept ticking.
So did I.
Then something unexpected happened.
A few classmates from my old section LKG, UKG, even summer camp drifted toward Rehane's sprawled body. No one spoke, but there was weight in how they moved.
Ali reached him first.
No words. Just a sharp kick to Rehane's ribs. Not out of anger. Just to mark the moment.
Tanya, caught Ali's wrist and gently pulled him back.
"Enough," she whispered. Protective, not scolding.
It's always the quiet ones you shouldn't mess with. The ones who don't bark but remember.
Rehane should've known better.
Rehane slowly got up, face red, lips tight. He scanned the crowd not for help, but for threat.
His eyes paused on Ali.
Then on me.
His fists clenched, but he didn't say a word. Just stared, like he was memorizing this moment for later.
Then he limped away, shoulder brushing the doorframe hard.
The room was quiet.
But I knew it wasn't over.
Not with him. Not with how that stare landed.
The clock on the wall had tilted.
But it kept ticking.
So did I.
[TO BE CONTINUED…]