"You don't win because you're better… you win because you suffer more."
You don't feel the punch that ends you.
People think you do—that there's some clarity in the moment your lights go out. A flicker of pain, a flash of realization, some cinematic surrender to the inevitable.
But when that shot lands clean—when the timing, the angle, and the force all line up like fate pulling the trigger—there's nothing poetic about it.
There's just nothing.
And then… something.
I come to with my cheek pressed to cold canvas. It smells like spit and copper. The crowd is a muffled roar, like I'm underwater and everyone's screaming through glass.
My ears are ringing. My vision's stuttering. I try to push myself up, but my arms are jelly. I've felt this before—too many times. The shame. The taste of blood. The split second where every neuron fires the word: "Failed."
I blink and see Rivera walking away—hands raised, not even celebrating, just nodding like this was inevitable. The ref waves it off. My corner's quiet. No protests. No objections. They knew. I was out. He caught me clean.
KO. Round two.
Another loss.
Another fight where the body moved, but the soul didn't show up.
I shut my eyes and exhale. There's a sharpness in my ribs, like something cracked when I hit the ground. But it's not pain I feel—it's emptiness.
And then… that feeling hits me.
Cold. Not outside. Inside. Like someone poured ice into my veins and it's climbing, inch by inch, up my spine and into the back of my skull.
My heart skips.
A pressure builds behind my eyes.
Then—
SNAP.
It's not audible, not even physical. Just a shift.
A pull.
And then—
TEN SECONDS EARLIER.
I'm upright.
Still fighting.
Still breathing.
The crowd's roar resets like a skipping record.
Rivera is in front of me again, bouncing light on his toes, coming in fast. His right shoulder twitches. I see it—the same shoulder that launched the hook that ended me.
But this time…
I remember.
I shouldn't. I shouldn't remember the knockout. I shouldn't remember my body going limp, my head snapping sideways like it wasn't mine anymore. But I do. In perfect, horrifying clarity.
And now I'm here again. Ten seconds earlier. With the memory of a loss I haven't yet lived through.
My knees bend instinctively. I duck low just as Rivera's right arm comes flying over.
It misses.
I don't think—I react. I spin into him, elbow slicing under his guard, crushing his ribcage with a wet crack.
He grunts. Staggers.
He's surprised.
I'm surprised.
The crowd roars—not for him, but for me. A chant bubbles up from the bloodthirsty mouths wrapped around the cage:
"DAMIEN! DAMIEN!"
I step back, stunned. My chest heaves. Not from exertion—but from shock.
What the fuck just happened?
I was done. I was done. I saw the lights. I felt the mat. I lost.
But now I haven't.
Now I'm back.
And I can feel it—the shift. Something's wrong. Wrong inside me. The taste in my mouth isn't just blood anymore. It's electric. Metallic. Like chewing on lightning.
And then, I hear it.
A voice. Not loud, not whispering. Just… there.
"That's one."
One what?
I glance around. My coach is screaming advice I can't hear. The ref is circling. Rivera's clutching his side, confused, furious. He doesn't know what just happened. How I dodged a strike I couldn't have seen coming.
But I do.
I remember it.
I remember dying.
I sit on the stool in the corner between rounds, barely listening as my cutman works on my face. I feel the Vaseline slide over my eyebrow. I hear the distant slap of a gloved hand against my shoulder.
"Keep your guard up, Damien. He's leaking now. You hurt him bad."
But I'm not thinking about Rivera.
I'm thinking about me.
My heart's not racing. It's slow. Measured. Like a ticking bomb in reverse.
My hands tremble. Not from adrenaline. From memory.
And that voice… still there. Humming beneath my thoughts like a second pulse.
"That's one."
I swallow.
The fight ends in the third. A body shot opens Rivera's ribs and I pour on the punches until he folds like wet paper. TKO. My hand is raised. I smile for the camera.
But inside?
I'm not smiling.
Inside, I'm asking questions no fighter's ever asked after a win:
Did I die?
Was that real?
Why do I remember a version of the fight that never happened?
That night, I don't go out drinking with my crew. I don't party. I don't hit the gym the next day, cocky and bruised.
I lock myself in my apartment and watch the fight tape on repeat.
I rewind it. Pause it. Frame by frame. I try to find the moment. The break. The truth.
But nothing's there.
No record of the hook landing. No moment of collapse. No knockout.
Just a perfect dodge and a ruthless counter that I couldn't possibly have known to throw.
Unless I'd already lived that moment once before.
Three days pass.
I convince myself it was adrenaline. A head trick. Trauma-induced deja vu.
Until the next fight.
Until I lose again.
And feel the snap.
The cold.
The rewind.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, it's ten seconds.
Each time, I remember everything—every cut, every scream, every failure.
And every time I come back, something changes.
The pain lingers longer. My eyes flicker like bad reception. Sometimes I wake up from the rewind coughing blood I haven't shed yet. Once, I woke up with a bruise from a punch I dodged.
And that voice—always right after I win.
"That's two."
"That's three."
"That's four."
I don't know who's counting.
But they're not counting wins.
They're counting deaths.
Now I don't just fight to win.
I fight to survive the loop.
I fight because every rewind pulls me further away from being Damien Cole—the fighter.
Now?
I'm something else.
Something caught in the ten seconds between death and godhood.
And I don't know if I'm climbing…
or falling.