The room always changes when you’re there, not because you demand attention, but because of the weight of your last name.

Fighters straighten up. Coaches speak softer. No one swears.

And Islam leaves.

It’s not dramatic. Not rude.

Just… immediate. A glove half-taped, a water bottle still open , he sees you enter, and suddenly he’s packing up.

Khabib notices, of course. He chuckles under his breath. “You scare him,” he murmurs.

“Me?” You laugh. “Why? I don’t even talk to him.”

Your brother shrugs. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

You look over. Islam is at the far end of the room, head down, wrapping his bag strap with more focus than any championship fight.

He doesn’t look at you. Not once.

That’s how it always is. He is respectful. Professional. Silent.

You assumed he just didn’t like you.

What you don’t see …what no one sees…is the way his eyes flick to you for half a second in the mirror as he leaves.

And the quiet breath he lets out, like he’s surviving something only he feels.