The phone rang at eleven that night. Unknown caller ID. Rof was on the verge of ignoring it, but something nudged him to pick up. It was the same gut feeling that made him dodge Tank's punch, an innate reflex that couldn't be taught.
"Leon," the voice on the other end was deep, with a distinct West African accent, specifically Yoruba, making his name sound like it held a different meaning in another language.
Rof straightened on his bed. "Okon."
There was a brief pause, like Okon was taken aback by the recognition. "You recognize my voice."
"I recognize your fighting style. I've studied it enough." Rof was sitting in the dim-lit room. "Have you studied mine?"
"Yes," Okon responded after a pause. "You're not what I expected."
"What were you expecting?"
"Another Tank. Another man who discovered something within himself and thought it made him invincible." He paused. "But you don't move like you're invincible. You move as though you're carrying something delicate. Precise. Not because you fear your own power but because you don't want to damage what you carry."
Rof remained silent.
"I recognize that movement," Okon said quietly. "I invented it."
In the dark, quiet room, Rof could hear his father's rhythmic breathing down the hall. It was comforting.
"The man in the wheelchair," Rof said.
A lengthy silence followed.
"His name is Antoine Reeves," Okon said finally. "He has a seven-year-old daughter named Simone. She was four when the incident happened." His voice was steady, but it was a studied calmness that required constant effort. "I visited him once, afterward. He told me it wasn't my fault. He was sincere. But that didn't change the fact that even after forgiveness, a debt may still be owed. Both realities can coexist."
"Yeah," Rof agreed. "I understand that."
"I returned to fighting because someone finally explained to me what I am," Okon continued. "What was done to me. The experiment. The project." His voice hardened slightly. "Once I had the real information, not the sugar-coated version the neurologist fed me, I wasn't scared anymore. I was angry. And anger is a much purer motivation than fear." He paused. "But I wanted to tell you something before our fight tomorrow."
"Go ahead."
"I'm not coming to hurt you, Leon. I'm not coming to destroy you. I'm coming to test my full potential against someone who can withstand it." His voice turned serious. "Because Antoine Reeves couldn't withstand it. And I have spent three years questioning whether that incident reveals a fundamental flaw in me or if it was merely the circumstances ,the mismatch that caused the damage." He took a deep breath. "You're not a mismatch. Whatever is in you it aligns with what's in me. I believe that."
Rof sat in the darkness, thinking about the twelve children, the tailored enhancements, and how no two were the same.
"You're seeking permission," Rof said finally. "To go all out."
Silence.
"Yes," Okon admitted.
"Then fight me with all you've got," Rof said. "Don't hold back. Don't control it. I need to see what you're capable of and you need to stop being afraid of what you are." He paused. "We won't hurt each other beyond what we can handle. I trust that."
"You can't be sure of that."
"No," Rof said. "But I know what I'm built to endure. I've been learning it with every fight. And I trust that God wouldn't bring me this far only to let me break against someone I was specifically designed to face."
The silence on the line was heavy.
"You're a Christian," Okon said.
"Yeah."
"I am too," he said simply. It was a moment of understanding.
Two men sat in the dark, on opposite ends of the city, holding phones, each carrying burdens only they could bear.
"Tomorrow," Rof said.
"Tomorrow," Okon echoed.
With that, Okon hung up. Rof placed his phone face-down on the mattress and laid back. He stared at the ceiling, thinking about Okon's words, the weight behind "I invented that movement". He thought about a man who had spent years suppressing his true power, who had retired not out of guilt but fear of his full potential, who had returned to the ring not for money , Rof finally understood but to answer a question that could only be answered in the ring.
Am I fundamentally flawed?
Rof knew that question well. He'd asked it differently what did they put in me and does it make me less of myself but the essence was the same. The fundamental question beneath the circumstances.
He pressed his palm against the mattress, thinking about his father's favorite biblical passage. Ezekiel's vision of the valley of dry bones. The open question.
Can these bones live?
He thought about how both he and Okon had called their upcoming fight sacred — in different words, from different perspectives, but arriving at the same conclusion. Like two different rivers that shared the same source when seen from a higher perspective.
With that, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep but couldn't. Not because he was nervous, but because he was too full. His mind was alive, awake, and active.
He got up, walked to the kitchen, and drank some water. He stood by the window, looking out at the empty street. The streetlight cast a small orange glow in the middle of the dark night.
He returned to his room and picked up his cross from beside the mattress where it had fallen off during the day. He fixed the clasp, put it on, and laid back down.
He whispered a short prayer. Not for victory. Not for speed. Not for any specific outcome of the fight.
Just: Let me be who You created me. Not what they made me. Who You created me to be.
With that, he closed his eyes again. This time, sleep came easily. It was the deep, peaceful sleep of a man who had accepted the magnitude of the coming day and decided to be rested for it.
His father's steady breathing filled the silence of the house. It was comforting.
Tomorrow.