I pushed through the front doors and stepped out into the cold midday air. I practically sprinted to my car, got inside, and locked the doors. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn't get the key into the ignition.
I sat there, breathing hard, the smell of the gym still clinging to my clothes. I pulled my mother’s rusted key from my right pocket. Locker 42. I hadn't even found the locker room before Rex intercepted me.
Then, I thought about Victor’s story. The syndicate. The stolen money. Rex committing the murder twenty years ago.
I pulled out my phone and opened the browser. I typed in "Rex Titan Boxing Club."
It didn't take long to find him. His full name was Rex Carter. He was a local heavyweight champion. He had a Wikipedia page, mostly detailing a short professional run that ended after a brutal knockout. I scrolled down to his personal life section.
Born: August 12, 1992.
I stared at the screen, the numbers blurring for a second as the math clicked in my head. Today was 2026. Rex was thirty-four years old.
My father disappeared in 2004.
Twenty years ago, Rex Carter was only twelve or thirteen years old. Maybe fourteen at the absolute oldest when my father vanished.
A chill crawled up my spine. A fourteen-year-old kid didn't murder a fully grown heavyweight boxer over a fifty-thousand-dollar syndicate theft. It was impossible.
Which meant Victor had just looked me in the eyes and lied to my face.
Victor was terrified of Rex, yes, but not because Rex killed my father. Victor was using Rex to scare me away. Victor was the one who covered up the disappearance. Victor was the one who had the dented stopwatch. And Victor was the one telling me not to look any further.
I was holding the key to Locker 42. Whatever the truth was, Victor didn't want me finding it.
I couldn't leave. But I couldn't go back in there while Rex and his crew were standing guard. I would have to wait.
I sat in my car for nine hours. I watched the sun dip below the industrial skyline, painting the concrete streets in harsh orange and deep purple shadows. I watched the gym members trickle out. Finally, at 10:30 PM, the front lights of Titan Boxing Club shut off. I saw Victor exit the building, lock the heavy metal gate, and drive away in an old sedan.
The street was dead quiet.
I zipped my jacket up to my chin, grabbed a small flashlight from my glove compartment, and slipped out of my car. I crossed the street, sticking to the shadows, and moved down the narrow alley bordering the gym.
Victor had locked the front, but the building was old. I found a frosted bathroom window near the back that hadn't been fully latched in decades. I climbed onto a rusted dumpster, pried the window open with freezing fingers, and slipped inside, dropping quietly onto the tiled floor.
The gym at night was a completely different beast. The smell of copper and sweat was stale and oppressive. Without the sounds of jumping rope and shouting, the silence felt heavy, suffocating. My flashlight beam cut a narrow path through the darkness as I crept out of the bathroom and into the main corridor.
I found the men's locker room at the end of the hall. The door squeaked in protest as I pushed it open. Rows of battered, dented gray metal lockers stood in the gloom, smelling of damp towels and rust.
I walked down the first aisle. Locker 12. Locker 14.
I turned the corner. Locker 42.
It was located in the darkest corner of the room, secured by an old, heavy-duty padlock that looked completely out of place among the cheap combination locks on the other doors. I took a deep breath, pulled my mother's rusted brass key from my pocket, and slid it into the lock.
It turned with a satisfying, heavy mechanical click.