Chapter 2. The Heirloom

Morning in Chicago didn’t sound like morning—it sounded like pipes clanging, buses coughing awake, somebody’s radio bleeding out a Spanish ballad through cracked brick.

Lia blinked at the light cutting through the cheap blinds. The air in her apartment tasted like sweat, metal, and the faint after burn of last night’s liniment. Her body spoke first, before her brain—every joint stiff, ribs bruised in places she hadn’t known ribs reached.

She tried to roll upright. Pain answered.

Her knuckles were swollen tight enough that the skin looked stretched. She flexed once, hissed through her teeth, then stood anyway.

The floor was cold, the kind of cold that made her aware she hadn’t paid the heating bill yet.

Ethan’s empty coffee mug sat on the counter. He’d gone sometime before dawn, leaving only the note—“Sorry. I’ll figure it out.”—folded into a shape that looked more like guilt than apology.

She crumpled it, dropped it into the sink.

The TV across the room flickered in silence; she’d left it on last night without sound. News headlines scrolled across the bottom:

REGIONAL MMA CHAMPIONSHIP—$150,000 PURSE. QUALIFIERS OPEN REGISTRATION NEXT WEEK.

Her throat tightened. $150K.

That was exactly what they owed.

She stared at the screen until the letters blurred. Her body still hurt too much to dream, but her pulse began to climb anyway.

No. Don’t.

She turned the TV off and reached for her gym bag. Inside: one half-torn wrap, a broken mouth guard, and something wrapped in an old towel.

The medal.

Her grandmother’s. The one she’d said was “from when women fought for something bigger than rent.” The ribbon had long since faded from red to rust, the edges frayed.

Lia turned it over in her palm. The metal caught light weakly, like it had forgotten how to shine.

She’d promised she’d never sell it. Promised herself, not anyone else.

But promises didn’t pay interest.

***

The pawn shop sat under the train tracks on Halsted, its windows barred and fogged from years of tobacco and regret. The bell over the door gave a halfhearted jingle when she stepped in.

A man behind the counter—bald, thick glasses, fingers stained yellow from nicotine—looked up slow. “You look like you went three rounds with a freight train.”

“Just one,” she said.

He snorted, wiped his hands on a rag. “Whatcha got?”

Lia placed the towel on the counter and unfolded it. The medal lay there between them, small and unimpressive, except for what it meant.

He leaned in. “Olympic vintage? Or—nah, looks more like a local award.”

“Pre-war regional,” she said. “Silver-plated.”

He turned it over with a finger, squinting. “It’s pretty. Not worth much.”

“How much is ‘not much’?”

“Thirty, maybe forty bucks.”

The words struck deeper than they should’ve. Thirty dollars wasn’t even cab fare.

She picked the medal back up, slow. The ribbon brushed her fingers—soft, threadbare.

The man tilted his head. “You want me to check the silver content? Might get you a little more.”

She shook her head. “Forget it.”

“Suit yourself.”

He was already turning back to the old TV mounted behind him, a fuzzy local broadcast that showed a clip of a fight from the night before.

The image stopped her—her own fight, distorted by poor quality, her face turned away.

The caption read: UNDERGROUND BRAWLER STUNS FAVORITE—MYSTERY FIGHTER REMAINS UNIDENTIFIED.

The pawn man noticed her freeze. “You know her?”

“No,” Lia said, too fast.

He grinned, the toothpick rolling between his teeth. “You kinda look like her.”

“Lots of girls fight.”

“Not like that.”

The bell over the door rang again, and the cold from outside swept in. Lia seized the moment, pocketed the medal, and left before he could ask another question.

Outside, the L train thundered overhead, shaking rust from the metal beams. Lia leaned against a support column, hand around the medal in her pocket.

Thirty dollars for her grandmother’s pride.

One hundred and ten thousand owed for Ethan’s mistake.

And a tournament that could solve it all—or end her.

Her reflection flickered in the pawn shop window—split between the glare of fluorescent light and the shadow of the street.

You’re out of chances, a quiet voice in her head said.

Then maybe I start taking risks.

The wind cut through her jacket. She closed her hand around the medal tighter until the edges bit into her palm, grounding her.

***

The train screeched overhead, and Lia let the sound fill her head until it drowned everything else out—the ache in her shoulders, the number in her gut, Ethan’s voice saying I’ll fix it.

She walked without thinking, following the steam rising from manholes like signals. Chicago had a way of feeling personal when you were broke; every billboard and bus stop ad whispered what you couldn’t afford.

By the time she reached the bodega near her apartment, the TV in the corner was blaring sports coverage. She stopped at the door, caught by the movement on the screen.

A blonde anchor, all teeth, and composure, smiled too wide for 9 a.m. “The Midwestern Regional MMA Championship returns this spring! One hundred fifty thousand dollars in prize money and a shot at national rankings…”

Footage rolled—fighters in sanctioned rings, clean gloves, real sponsors. It looked like another planet.

“…And registration opens this week. The question is—who’ll rise from the underground circuit this year?”

The screen flashed names: two men, one woman. Lia recognized one—Nadia Ramos. National darling. A woman with perfect form, sponsors, and a mouth that could sell anything.

Lia felt something twist inside. Not envy exactly. More like recognition.

Nadia fought clean. Lia fought hungry.

The anchor kept talking, but Lia wasn’t listening anymore.

Her reflection in the glass freezer door stared back: bruised jaw, lip split, eyes too sharp for morning light.

She could almost hear Cassian’s voice again, low and sharp in memory. “You want to win? Learn to lose everything first.”

She opened a Gatorade, paid with wrinkled bills, and walked out before the clerk could make small talk.

By the river, the city looked cold and mechanical. Wind tore at the water, turning it into shards of silver. Lia sat on the low concrete ledge and stretched her hand, palm still lined from where the medal had pressed.

She took it out again. The ribbon fluttered in the wind.

“You’d hate this, Grandma,” she said softly. “You’d say it’s selling pride to buy time.”

She waited for some inner answer, some whisper of guidance, but all she heard was the hum of traffic and the rattle of the bridge.

Her phone buzzed. Ethan.

E: You okay?

L: Define okay.

E: We can still find another way.

L: There isn’t one.

She started to type I’ll handle it, then stopped. The words had already lost meaning.

Instead, she just put the phone away and looked out over the water.

She didn’t want to go back underground. Not again. The fights took pieces she didn’t always get back. But the number—the debt—had weight. It sat in her lungs, made breathing expensive.

If she quit now, she lost more than money. She lost control.

A gull screamed overhead, harsh and hollow.

She clenched her hand around the medal again. “I’m not quitting,” she whispered. The wind carried the words away before she could take them back.

Back home, she cleared the table and set the medal down in front of her. The apartment hummed with the sound of pipes and the upstairs neighbor’s TV.

She opened her laptop, searched ‘Midwestern Regional MMA registration.’ The site loaded slow, the banner shining with bright, corporate polish.

Name, birthdate, fight history.

She hesitated over that line—fight history.

None official.

Her fingers hovered. She typed anyway.

Lia Park. Independent.

Her pulse climbed. The hum of the radiator filled the room like breath.

She hit Submit.

The confirmation screen blinked up, small and blue and impossible to take back.

For a long moment, she sat there, staring at it. Her heart beat hard, steady.

Then she reached for the medal again, slipped the ribbon around her wrist, tied it once.

A promise and a warning.

***

The café smelled like espresso and rain. Chicago did that—smelled different when it decided to remember it was near a lake. The tables were small, the lighting soft enough to make people look more honest than they were.

Jun sat near the window, two cups already on the table. He always ordered for her, same thing every time: black, no sugar.

When Lia walked in, his eyes lifted instantly. Not surprise—recognition, like he’d been tracking her through some invisible current.

“You look worse than usual,” he said, voice even, amused.

She pulled out the chair across from him. “You should see the other one.”

He smiled, the kind that bent at the edges. “I did. On YouTube.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “You shouldn’t be watching that.”

“You shouldn’t be starring in it.”

She exhaled through her nose, looked out the window. The rain had gone fine and silver, slicing through the air sideways.

“Ethan told you?” she asked.

“Didn’t have to.” He sipped his coffee, eyes not leaving her. “You disappear for a week, then a video of an unknown fighter with your height, your stance, your right hook goes viral. Do the math.”

She didn’t answer. The silence between them thickened with the smell of roasted beans and steam.

Jun leaned in, elbows on the table. “You think this is just about money?”

Lia’s gaze flicked to him. “What else would it be about?”

He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. “Someone wants you scared.”

The way he said it—flat, certain—sent something cold down her spine.

She tried to mask it with a smirk. “That’s vague.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Vague keeps you alive.”

She studied him. Jun always spoke like he knew more than he should. Half the time she couldn’t tell if he was warning her or testing her.

“Why do you care?” she asked.

He tilted his head. “Because you’re predictable. You get hit, you stand up. You lose, you fight again. Someone out there’s counting on that.”

Her stomach tightened. She reached for her cup but didn’t drink.

“Who?”

He shrugged. “Haven’t decided if you’re ready for that answer yet.”

“Try me.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Cassian’s name’s still floating around. Old debts, old enemies. You step back in the ring, you’ll drag his ghost up with you.”

She swallowed hard, throat dry. “Cassian’s not my problem.”

“He was once.”

“That was a lifetime ago.”

Jun sat back. “Funny thing about lifetimes. The past doesn’t die. It just waits for you to get tired.”

Lia’s pulse beat at her throat. “You done preaching?”

“Almost.” He slid a folded napkin toward her. “That’s the contact info for the tournament registrar. They’ll want an official trainer listed. You put Cassian’s name, and someone will notice. You put nobody, and someone will still notice.”

“Then what?”

“Then you get noticed faster.”

The napkin felt too light in her hand. She unfolded it, saw the name—some generic admin address—but also a faint scrawl beneath, Jun’s writing:

Trust no one who wants to help you for free.

She looked up, but Jun was already standing, pulling on his jacket.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she said.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

He started to leave, then paused at the door, rain painting his shoulders in quick silver streaks.

“Lia,” he said without turning. “Next time you fight, don’t hide your face. They already know it’s you.”

Then he was gone.

She sat there long after, coffee gone cold. The napkin lay open on the table, the words bleeding slightly where a drop of rain had fallen.

Outside, the wind picked up, carrying the sound of traffic and distant horns. The city moved on, indifferent.

Lia tied the ribbon of the medal tighter around her wrist, hiding it under her sleeve.

Inside, she felt the echo of Jun’s words settle like weight: Someone wants you scared.

She wasn’t sure if she was. Not yet.

But she could feel it coming.