Chapter 4: When Control Slips

Milena Dragovic

My pulse didn’t slow, not even after Alexander moved to the cubbies. He was just a few meters away, towel slung over his shoulder, water bottle in hand. Close enough that every shift of his muscles remained in my peripheral vision, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.

He dragged the towel down the length of his throat, wiping away the last trail of sweat before letting the fabric hang loosely in his hand. Then he leaned forward, bracing one arm against the cubbies, resting his forehead lightly against it. For a moment, he looked almost still. His chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths, but the rhythm didn’t seem relaxed. It was deliberate, forced, the kind of breathing people used when they were trying to settle something inside themselves. It was the kind of breathing someone learned to quiet themselves, not recover. A self-soothing technique. A sign.

He didn’t look at me again.

But I felt the pull of his presence like static.

The coach kept talking beside me, something about schedules, something about how “this is normal for him.” But the words blurred into background noise.

Because I could still see that flicker from before.

That snap.

That shift in his eyes that told me something inside him was wired too tight.

And then he straightened, rolled his shoulders once, and stepped right back toward the center mat like nothing had happened. No break. No cooldown. No emotional reset. Just a switch flipped back on. He tossed the towel aside, flexed his fingers, and stepped back onto the mat with the kind of determination that made it clear:

He isn’t done.

Not even close.

Of course.

Alexander doesn’t seem like a person to easily give up.

Another guy approached him. Bigger. Bulkier. A little too eager.

“Round two?” the guy grinned.

Alexander didn’t answer. He lifted his gloves, posture loose, deceptively relaxed.

They touched gloves.

And began.

“Watch this,” the coach murmured.

I did.

Because I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to.

The first thirty seconds of the fight were controlled. The exchanges were standard. Clean, efficient.

Precise.

Alexander’s way of fighting looked almost rehearsed. A tight guard, clean footwork, and calculated strikes. He was sharp. He wasn’t attacking, nor was he reacting. He was assessing. Testing.

His partner laughed breathlessly after blocking a combo.

“Damn, man. That all you got? Heard underground boys hit harder.”

It was meant as a joke.

It wasn’t received as one.

Alexander’s jaw flexed. His shoulders tightened.

Trigger.

Then the other fighter smirked at him and added something else under his breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear. But Alexander heard it.

His expression didn’t change.

But I saw it. The shift in the eyes.

The tightening around the mouth.

The stillness in the breath. I’d seen it before.

The flicker before the break.

“No,” I whispered. “Not again.”

His movements changed.

Suddenly his strikes snapped out faster. Too fast.

Too sharp. They were rash, yet still controlled. But controlled in the way a man is when he’s forcing himself not to break.

The trigger was identical to the one I had seen before.

In someone else.

In a different gym.

That felt like a lifetime ago.

“Don’t,” I whispered to nobody. But it was too late.

Alexander drove forward, overwhelming the man with a blast of punishing blows.

“Yo! Hey...take it easy!” His partner barked.

But the words blurred into noise.

No hesitation, no calculation, just raw, instinctive violence. His partner stumbled back, hands up in panic as Alexander chased him down with terrifying precision.

Then the fighter repositioned himself and landed a solid cross to Alexander’s cheek. A clean hit. Enough to make most fighters reset.

Alexander didn’t even flinch.

His head snapped to the side, then turned back slowly, eyes empty.

Oh God.

He's dissociating.

The world narrowed around him.

I saw it happen. His awareness collapsed inward until nothing existed except movement and threat.

He wasn’t fighting an opponent anymore.

He was fighting himself.

His partner stumbled back. “Alex…man… Stop!”

But it was too late. Alexander was beating the guy up without any calculation.

Trainer voices exploded around them.

“Alex!”

“Stop!”

“Break!”

“Break!”

He didn’t hear them.

Or maybe he couldn’t. His focus was so sharp, not even an exploding bong would catch his attention.

Then I saw a blur move across the mat. Another fighter sprinted forward and vaulted over the elastic line around the ring, landing with a soft thud that spoke of too much experience doing exactly this.

“Rayven, don’t!” The coach suddenly yelled next to me.

The fighter, whom I now know as Rayven, didn’t listen. He only had one goal in mind. He ran straight into the fight.

By the time he reached them, Alexander had his opponent pinned, fist raised for a final strike.

Rayven grabbed Alexander’s shoulders and hauled back with all his strength.

Alexander didn’t budge.

He twisted violently, teeth bared, eyes unrecognizing. As if Rayven wasn’t a teammate but another threat entering the fight.

Rayven blocked the wild elbow. “Alex! Hey!”

Alexander shoved him hard enough to make him stagger backwards.

Then he turned back toward his struggling opponent, who was clawing his way upright, leaning against the cage wall. Alexander stalked toward him with lethal intent.

Rayven lunged again, intercepting him, and Alexander spun, fist ready to strike.

“Alexander, STOP!” Rayven shouted, throwing his arms up.

“It’s ME!"

The words sliced through the gym.

Alexander froze.

Just froze.

His breath hitched.

His eyes flickered.

Recognition forced its way back in.

“Rayven…” His voice was rough and unsteady. “I’m...”

“Don’t,” Rayven snapped, firm but grounded.

Something in Alexander’s expression cracked. Barely, but enough.

Not quite remorse.

Not quite shame.

Something quieter.

More dangerous.

Disappointment... in himself.

The kind that eats you from the inside.

My stomach twisted painfully.

This was too close.

Too familiar.

Too dangerous.

I needed a break.

I stepped back before I realized I was moving.

“Milena?” Coach called, worry threading his voice. “Hey, are you okay?”

I shook my head, forcing air into my lungs.

“I…just need a moment.”

“I’m going to… get some air,” I murmured.

Coach nodded without pushing. He must’ve sensed I was off. Or maybe he was just used to the emotional fallout that followed Alexander wherever he went.

Either way, I slipped away from the mats and into the hallway near the offices. My footsteps echoed softly against the tiles as I pushed into the ladies’ room.

The second the door shut, the noise of the gym dulled into a distant hum.

The fluorescent light flickered once before settling.

I braced my hands on the counter and stared at my reflection.

My blue eyes looked too bright, too wide. A thin shimmer of panic made them glassy around the edges. My breathing was too fast and shallow at the top of my chest instead of deep and grounded.

“Not again,” I whispered to myself. “Not here.”

I counted backward. Took a deep breath in. One…two…three…four. I counted as I inhaled. And then again, as I exhaled.

I looked around for five things I could see: the crack in the tile, the water droplet on the faucet, the towel hanging at the side of the faucet, the door of a bathroom stall cracked slightly open, and my trembling fingers.

Four things I could touch: the cold sink edge, the smooth tile beneath my palms…

Grounding techniques.

Old habits.

Muscle memory.

I cupped my hands under the cold water and pressed them to my neck. The shock made my breath hitch for a second.

I looked at myself again.

Long dark-blonde waves fell unevenly over my shoulder, slightly frizzed.

“You're fine,” I told the mirror.

But it sounded more like a plea than reassurance.

I inhaled through my nose, slow and shaky, and straightened myself.

I couldn’t hide in here forever.

Alex was unpredictable, volatile, exactly the kind of fighter I promised myself I would never get close to again.

And yet…

There was something in him that tugged at me.

Something I didn’t trust.

Especially not in myself.

After I dried my hands, smoothed my hair, and forced my expression to neutral, I decided to get back. I brushed my hands down my clothes to make myself presentable again and then pushed open the bathroom door.

And as I step out… I freeze.

Alexander stood right outside, leaning casually against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest. Like he’d been waiting.

Not coincidentally passing by.

Not accidentally there.

Waiting.

His gaze traveled from my face down to the hand now clutching the door handle, then he looked back up to my eyes.

A slow, knowing smile curved his mouth.

“Well,” he said, voice low and dark with amusement, “there you are, little doctor.”

“I can’t do this,” I whispered in my head.

“Not him. Not this. Not again.”