Year: 2016
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Bronze. The word tasted metallic, like blood. It was an immortal achievement, the fulfillment of a thousand dreams. Yet in the quiet of the medical room beneath the Riocentro Pavilion, as a Brazilian doctor taped his aching ribs and iced his swollen right hand, it felt like a consolation prize. The medal was guaranteed, but the color was not yet set. The semifinals loomed, a gateway to gold, to the ultimate validation of his impossible promise.
His opponent was Artur "The Golem" Kovalenko of Ukraine. The name was a grim joke in the boxing world. If Sokolov was a hammer, Kovalenko was a landslide. The number three seed, a 6'1", 190-pound powerhouse who had bulldozed his way to the semis with a terrifying combination of crude, concussive power and an inhuman ability to absorb punishment. He wasn't a technician; he was a force of erosion. He walked forward, ate punches like snacks, and threw clubbing, fight-ending hooks with either hand. His face was a topographical map of scars, his nose long since flattened. He was 28, a veteran of the brutal Eastern European amateur system, and this was his last shot at glory.
The footage was horrifying. Kovalenko fought with a sneering, open-mouthed aggression. He taunted opponents, laughed when hit, and celebrated knockdowns with a primal roar. There was a chilling, familiar cruelty in his eyes that made Kyon's skin crawl.
Thorne watched the tape with a stony face. "He's strong. He's tough. And he's a bully. He fights to hurt people, not to win points. He'll try to make it a back-alley brawl. He'll hit on the break, use his head, whatever it takes." He paused, a strange tension in his voice. "He reminds me of some guys I fought back in the day. The kind who enjoyed it a little too much."
But to Kyon, it was more specific. The way Kovalenko postured after hurting someone, the dismissive sneer, the way he loomed over smaller opponents… it wasn't just a fighting style. It was a posture of dominion. It was the posture of Carl Wilson.
A cold, clear hatred, an emotion he had never allowed himself to feel in the ring, crystallized in Kyon's gut. This wasn't about gold or strategy. This was about exorcising a ghost. He would not lose to a man who wore his father's face.
The two-day break before the semifinal was a descent into a dark, focused rage. The usual pre-fight visualization was replaced by a single, repeating image: shattering Kovalenko's sneer. Thorne noticed the change—the tighter jaw, the harder eyes, the silence that wasn't calm but coiled violence.
"Kyon," Thorne said cautiously during a pad session. "This guy's a thug. But he's a dangerous thug. You can't fight him angry. Anger makes you stupid. It makes you stand and trade. That's what he wants."
"I know what he wants," Kyon said, his voice flat, as he snapped a jab that popped the mitt with startling force.
The day of the fight, the Olympic atmosphere felt different. The boxing world was buzzing about the matchup: the sublime, elusive Phantom versus the brutal, unstoppable Golem. It was art versus destruction. The pavilion was packed, the air thick with a bloodlust that transcended nationality.
Kyon's warm-up was silent, intense. He felt the river stone and the Olympic-steel necklace against his chest, cool anchors. But the cold hatred was a hotter, heavier weight.
When he walked out, the "U-S-A!" chants were deafening, but they sounded distant. His eyes were fixed on the tunnel. Kovalenko emerged to a chorus of boos and Ukrainian cheers. He was shirtless during his ring walk, showcasing a torso like a slab of granite, marked with old scars. He pounded his chest, snarled at the crowd, and made a throat-slitting gesture towards Kyon's corner. The bully. The Golem.
The referee, a seasoned Finn, gave stern warnings about clean fighting. Kovalenko grinned, showing a mouthpiece over crooked teeth. His eyes, up close, were pale blue and utterly devoid of sportsmanship. They were the eyes of a man who enjoyed breaking things. Carl Wilson's eyes.
The bell rang.
Round 1 was a shockwave. Kovalenko didn't bother with a jab. He marched forward, his guard high but loose, and threw a monstrous, looping right hand meant to decapitate. Kyon, his reflexes singing, slipped inside it. He fired a sharp one-two: jab to the face, cross to the chest. The punches landed cleanly, but Kovalenko didn't flinch. He just grunted and threw a clubbing left hook.
Kyon rolled under it, but Kovalenko was already following up, a piston of brute force. He cornered Kyon and unleashed a barrage of hooks to the body. THUD. THUD. THUD. They weren't sharp punches; they were sledgehammers. Kyon covered up, the impacts vibrating through his arms into his already-bruised ribs. The pain was immediate and severe.
He tried to pivot out. Kovalenko, anticipating it, stepped on his foot—a dirty, subtle move—and slammed a short right uppercut into Kyon's solar plexus.
The air exploded from Kyon's lungs. He saw stars, buckling at the waist. Kovalenko shoved him against the ropes and rained down punches. The world became a cacophony of pain and the Ukrainian's guttural grunts.
The referee finally pushed Kovalenko back. Kyon stumbled to the center, gasping, his body screaming. The round had lasted a minute. He was already in a fight for his life.
In the corner, Thorne was frantic, wiping his face. "You're fighting his fight! You're standing in front of him! Move! Use your feet, for God's sake! He's a truck; don't be the deer in the headlights!"
Kyon nodded, but the hatred was a fog. All he saw was the sneer.
Round 2. Kyon tried to box. He used his jab, moved laterally. He landed several clean shots that snapped Kovalenko's head back. But the Golem just shook his head like a wet dog and kept coming. He was cutting the ring better than expected, using his bulk to herd Kyon. He was also fighting dirty: holding and hitting, lacing his gloves on the breaks, using his forearm to push Kyon's head down.
Midway through the round, Kyon landed a perfect three-punch combination: jab, cross, left hook. It was a beautiful sequence. Kovalenko's nose erupted in blood.
And he laughed. A raw, spitting laugh, blood spraying from his lips. He pointed at his own bloody face, then at Kyon, as if to say, "Is that all you have?"
The mockery, the dismissive cruelty, was the final trigger. The Phantom vanished. The cold, calculating survivor was engulfed by the furious, abused child from the duplex.
Kyon snarled and charged.
He abandoned all technique. He met Kovalenko in the center of the ring and swung with him. Hook for hook. Bomb for bomb. It was a suicidal, barbaric exchange. The crowd was on its feet, roaring at the sheer, violent spectacle.
A Kovalenko right hand landed on Kyon's temple. The world tilted. A Kyon left hook crashed into Kovalenko's jaw. The Ukrainian's head snapped sideways.
They stood, toe-to-toe, in a pocket of pure violence, neither giving an inch. Blood flew—from Kyon's split lip, from Kovalenko's nose and a cut over his eye.
With thirty seconds left, Kovalenko, the more experienced brawler, feinted a left and threw a huge, overhand right. Kyon, his vision blurred from the previous shot, didn't see it coming.
The punch landed flush on the side of his jaw.
CRACK.
The sound echoed through the suddenly silent arena.
Kyon's eyes rolled back. Every muscle went limp. He crumpled, a puppet with its strings cut, landing heavily on his side.
Knockdown.
The referee began the count. "ONE… TWO…"
On the canvas, the world was a silent, white pain. But deeper than the pain, a voice screamed. It wasn't Thorne's. It was his own, from the alley, from every moment of helplessness. "GET UP."
"THREE… FOUR…"
His body twitched. His arm pushed. He rolled onto his hands and knees, drool and blood stringing from his mouth to the canvas. He could hear the count now, muffled as if underwater.
"FIVE… SIX…"
He planted a foot. Pushed. Staggered upright at the count of eight, swaying like a sapling in a hurricane. His guard was nonexistent. His eyes were glazed, but they were fixed on Kovalenko, who was stalking forward, a predator moving in for the kill.
The referee wiped his gloves. The bell rang, ending the round, saving him.
Kyon stumbled to his corner, collapsing onto the stool. Thorne and the cutman were in his face instantly. Ammonia salts under his nose jolted him back to a semblance of awareness. The pain was a universe.
"Listen to me!" Thorne shouted, his hands on Kyon's cheeks. "He's a bully! You're fighting like he wants you to fight! You have to be smarter! You have to be the Phantom! Box him! Make him miss! Make him pay! You cannot trade with this animal!"
Kyon spat a mouthful of blood. He looked across the ring. Kovalenko was smirking, talking to his coaches, pointing at Kyon as if he were already a corpse. The hatred burned through the fog, clean and sharp.
The bell for Round 3.
Kyon came out changed. The anger was still there, but it was now a cold, focused engine. He had tasted the abyss. He had gotten up. The monster had been awakened, but it was a monster with a brain.
Kovalenko charged, expecting the same wounded, brawling prey.
Kyon gave him a phantom. He slipped the first wild hook, pivoted, and landed a razor-sharp jab that reopened the cut over Kovalenko's eye. He moved, creating angles, making the Golem turn. When Kovalenko got close, Kyon would tie him up, not to rest, but to land short, vicious uppercuts to the body on the inside, the kind of dirty, painful work he'd learned in survival.
He was boxing, but it was boxing with malicious intent. Every shot was thrown to maim, to degrade. He was no longer just winning; he was punishing.
Kovalenko grew frustrated. His face, a mask of blood and rage, contorted. He started swinging wider, leaving openings. Kyon began to counter with brutal efficiency. A straight right that split Kovalenko's lip further. A left hook to the liver that made the Ukrainian grunt.
With a minute left, Kyon backed Kovalenko to the ropes. He feinted a right to the body. Kovalenko dropped his left hand. Kyon fired a right uppercut that lifted Kovalenko off his feet. The Ukrainian crashed back against the ropes, stunned.
Kyon moved in for the finish.
And made a mistake. Driven by that cold hatred, he went for the knockout instead of the accumulation. He threw a huge, fight-ending left hook.
Kovalenko, in a last-ditch survival instinct, ducked under it and, as he came up, threw a desperate, looping right hand of his own.
It was a punch thrown from his heels, with all his remaining strength and spite.
It connected on Kyon's chin.
Again.
CRACK.
A different sound. Softer, more final.
Kyon's legs disappeared. He fell straight back, his head bouncing off the canvas with a sickening thud. He lay motionless, arms splayed, eyes staring blankly at the blinding lights.
Knockdown. Two.
The arena was dead silent. The referee sprinted over, beginning the count. "ONE… TWO… THREE…"
Thorne's heart stopped. This was it. This was the concussion, the end.
"FOUR… FIVE…"
On the canvas, Kyon was gone. But something deeper than consciousness, something forged in a thousand moments of refusing to be broken, fired. A single, neural command, bypassing all reason, all pain.
GET UP.
SIX…
His fingers twitched.
SEVEN…
His leg kicked.
EIGHT…
With a guttural, inhuman sound that was part roar, part sob, Kyon Wilson rolled onto his side. He pushed himself up onto one knee. Blood poured from his nose, his mouth. He looked like a casualty of war.
NINE…
He shoved himself upright, swaying violently, grabbing the top rope to keep from falling. He turned, his vacant, bloody face finding the referee. He raised his hands in a pathetic, automatic guard.
TEN!
He was up. Again.
The referee, astounded, looked into his eyes. He saw nothing resembling a coherent fighter. He saw a vessel of pure, stubborn will. He waved Kovalenko back in. The fight continued.
Kovalenko, exhausted and unnerved by this thing that refused to die, lumbered forward. He threw a tired jab.
Kyon, operating on spinal-cord memory and fury, parried it. He didn't throw a punch back. He stepped forward and headbutted Kovalenko squarely in the face.
It was a foul. A blatant, vicious foul born of pure, unadulterated hatred.
The referee jumped in, deducting a point from Kyon. But the damage was done. Kovalenko's nose, already broken, was now a ruined mess. He staggered back, howling in pain and rage, his eyes streaming.
The bell rang.
The fight was over. It would go to the scorecards.
Kyon stood in the center of the ring, his body a ruined monument to violence. He was breathing in ragged, wet gasps. He looked at Kovalenko, who was being held up by his cornermen, his face a mask of crimson ruin.
And Kyon smiled.
It was a small, bloody, terrifying smile. A smile of primal satisfaction. He had faced the Golem, the ghost of his father, and he had not just survived; he had made it bleed. He had enjoyed it.
The announcer read the scores through the roaring din. It was a split decision, the point deduction making it close.
"...and the winner, by split decision... advancing to the Olympic Gold Medal Match... KYON WILSON OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!"
The American cheers were mixed with sounds of shock and awe. They had just witnessed something beyond sport. They had witnessed an exorcism.
Kyon's hand was raised. He didn't raise his own. He just stood there, smiling that faint, bloody smile, staring at the broken bully across the ring.
In the locker room, chaos. Medical staff worked on him. He had a broken nose, a concussion (again), multiple facial lacerations, and cracked ribs. But he was lucid. The monster was receding, leaving behind the shattered, triumphant fighter.
Thorne looked at him, his face a mixture of horror, pride, and deep, deep concern. "What the hell was that, Kyon?"
Kyon met his gaze, the smile gone, replaced by an eerie calm. "That was never losing again."
He had reached the final. He would fight for Olympic gold. But the cost was written in blood and broken bone. The Phantom had faced the monster in the mirror, and to win, he had let it out. The world had seen the ghost become a demon. Now, he had one more fight to see which one would claim the ultimate prize.