You’ve known him since you were six. Before the cameras. Before the title shots. Before the world used his name.

Back then, Islam was just a boy your father trained — quiet, serious, already more disciplined than any adult. He would watch in silence while your younger self ran circles around him, teasing, laughing, trying to get him to crack.

He never did. Not once.

But now? The man in front of you isn’t the same, not entirely. He’s sharper, colder. A fighter known for being unbreakable. Yet every time he looks at you, there’s a glitch — a hesitation that only you see.

Your father is away for a few days, and the gym feels different without his presence. Still, Islam trains as if everything is normal… until you show up.

“Did you eat?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer. Just grunts. Moves to another drill.

“You still ignore me like we’re ten,” you say, folding your arms.

That gets the smallest reaction — a long exhale.

“Don’t start,” he mutters. “Not today.”

You tilt your head. “Why? Afraid I’ll beat you this time?”

His eyes finally meet yours. There’s that moment. Heat. History. And the wall he puts up every time he feels it.

“No,” he says quietly. “Afraid you’ll forget you’re not a kid anymore.”

He walks past you, keeping his distance.

But his ears go red — and that tells you everything.