Silas returned not at dawn's break, nor during training hours but at eight in the evening. This was the hour that Rof had come to know as Silas's unplanned time. The workout had ended and Manny had left. The gym was dim, illuminated only by a single bulb that Rof had kept on over the boxing ring while he was stretching out on the canvas.
He heard the familiar sound of footsteps on the stairwell. Silas came down, wearing street clothes, his gaze swept around the dark gym before settling on Rof. He didn't offer any explanation as to why he was there at such an hour. Silas simply took a seat ringside on Manny's stool and clasped his hands in between his knees.
Rof continued his stretching routine, allowing Silas his silence. He'd learned that patience was key when dealing with Silas. Push him, and he'd retreat; wait, and he'd eventually reveal something genuine.
After a few minutes, Silas broke the silence. "My father ran tests on me," he admitted.
Rof paused his stretching, but didn't look at Silas just yet.
Silas quickly clarified, "Not like what was done to you. It wasn't anything medical or invasive. It was behavioral. My father was a decorated and published behavioral psychologist. Since I was four, he'd run experiments on my pattern recognition, response testing, and prediction modeling. He kept records and adjusted variables." His voice was steady, but it was clear it was taking effort. "I didn't understand what was happening until I was eleven. I thought it was just the way fathers and sons spent time together."
Rof remained silent, letting Silas unload his past.
Silas continued, "Once I understood, I didn't stop. I continued because I was good at it. I began to excel and that's a hard thing to resist." He glanced at his hands. "By the age of sixteen, my pattern recognition was clinically advanced. By twenty, it had evolved into something else. By twenty-three, I found myself in underground boxing matches because traditional boxing was too predictable. I needed complexity."
"You needed to not be bored," Rof said.
Silas looked at him. "Yes, that's the honest truth." He returned his gaze to his hands. "My father published three papers on my cognitive development. I was never named. It was all approved and legal." His tone suggested he understood that legality did not equate to morality. "He was proud of what I'd become. He still is." His jaw tightened. "I can't stand to be in his presence for more than an hour. No one understands why because from the outside there's no visible trauma, no clear wrong. Just a father who took his son's talent and used it for his own purposes."
Rof looked at him now, but Silas was looking at the floor, seemingly attempting to remember what it felt like to not carry a burden.
"You recognized me," Rof said.
Silas looked up.
"On the first day, in that gym, you saw me and recognized something in my situation." Rof held his gaze. "Not my speed or my fights, but the situation. A man who had something done to him before he could choose."
Silas was still.
"Yes," he finally admitted.
"And that's why you came here," Rof said. "Not just to study my speed or because I broke your system. You're here because you saw a situation similar to yours. You wanted to see how a man handles that."
The gym was silent.
Silas looked at Rof for a long time, not running his system, just looking at another man.
"What do you do with it?" Silas asked. For the first time, his question was genuine, without any underlying agenda.
Rof took the query seriously. "I don't carry it alone. You need people who see you for who you are, not for what you've become. You've been alone with your system for too long."
Silas said nothing.
"Your pattern recognition is extraordinary," Rof said. "But you've been using it to push people away because being reachable is risky."
The silence was palpable.
"You're not smart," Silas said, but his tone was not dismissive, but rather, sincere.
"I know," Rof said.
"But you see things, without your system, without the thirty seconds." Silas looked at Rof, his face unguarded. "How?"
Rof almost smiled. "My father," he said again. "It's always the same answer."
Silas looked at him. "Must be nice," he said quietly, sincerely.
Rof looked at him. "Your fight with Brecker is in three days. You'll win and then you might face Okon. When you fight, fight like a person, not a proof. Whatever your father built, it's yours now. Use it like it's yours, not like it's still his."
Silas took some time to process this before standing up and straightening his jacket. His professional demeanor was back, but it felt different, more natural.
"Three days," Silas affirmed.
"Three days," Rof confirmed.
Silas ascended the stairs and Rof was left alone in the dimly-lit gym. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, letting the day's conversations settle in.
Three days.
Okon.
Whatever Rael wanted to see.
Whatever the speed was becoming.
He pressed his palm flat on the canvas, feeling its texture. He took a deep breath.
Not alone, he thought. That's the first step.
He lay there until the bulb flickered once. He got up, switched off the light, and climbed the stairs into the Philadelphia night.