Divine SUN

Chika woke up to the sensation and smell of sweat on the her bed, one of the disadvantages of her long journeys to the astral realm is the hygiene of the room after she returns back to earth. Sometimes she wished she could just wave her hands and the room will clean itself like in the astrals.
Before she began forgetting the memories that she brought from the astral realm because of the difference in frequency and density in both realms, she grabbed her journal and began writing everything that they told her. Including the fact that she would have to choose between her heart and the key, they basically told her she would destroy the world because of love.
When she was done journaling everything that she could remember she started cleaning her room.
When Chika was done cleaning up her room, she appeared behind Fisayo in the living room with a smug look on her face.
He did not need a seer to tell him that she was going to try something from behind, so he adjusted his position so he was facing her directly.
“What do you want?” He asked her squinting his eyebrows.
“It’s still my birthday,” Chika answered. “You promised me dinner,” Fisayo scoffed. “You’re annoying, you dont deserve a birthday dinner,”
Chika responded by folding her fists and lifting them up, “You know that I can take you a concussion right?”
Fisayo shook his head and said, “Ever so violent,” Then he closed the distance between them and pulled her into a hug.
“You’re everything,” He said. “Happy Birthday. I know your dad would have loved to be here, but today I am your daddy,”
The mention of her dad triggered the memories of their last encounter in the astral realm, the feelings of nostalgia and heightened paranoia from missing them and hearing his warning respectively made her not process the fact that Fisayo had called her his child.
“I feel like doing curry and chicken. We could go to Arun’s, its the most fancy Indian place around.” Chika said as they separated from the hug.
“Yeah sure.”
…………………………..
The warm fragrance of turmeric, garlic, and sizzling tandoori chicken wrapped around Chika the moment she and Fisayo stepped into Arun’s, a cozy Indian restaurant tucked between two shops with fading signs. Golden lamps threw soft light over polished wooden tables, and a slow sitar melody hummed under the chatter of evening diners.
Fisayo, as usual, was already in his element.
“Reservation for Fisayo,” He told the host with a grin that suggested he owned the place. The host led them to a corner booth where a single candle flickered between two menus.
“You went all out,” Chika murmured, sliding into her seat. The atmosphere made her feel oddly exposed, like the candlelight could reveal more than she wanted to show.
“You didnt give me a lot of time to plan, but I think i did good,” His warm smile lit up the room
“You only turn twenty-six once,” Fisayo added, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “And besides, if I don’t feed you properly, you’ll keep pretending those instant noodles are a food group.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Noodles kept me alive. They are not ever  getting any disrespect from anyone, in front of me at least.”
“Yes Ma.”
The waiter came by, and they ordered—samosas to start, butter chicken for Chika, lamb rogan josh for Fisayo, and garlic naan “Because life without naan is tragedy,” according to him.
As they waited, silence pressed in. Chika traced the rim of her water glass, her thoughts drifting to the weight of the ancestors’ ban, the keys, the enemies watching even when she smiled.
Fisayo noticed. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. He was not used to Chika beign so absent minded.
“You’re not here with me,” He said quietly. “You’re somewhere else again.”
He had known Chika her whole life and he was aware that she got into some spiritual stuff, like talking to spirits and entities after her father died and that it made her great at fighting, and from what he had observed from movies and tv, the people who talked to spirits usually did not have stable moods and their moods determined the kind of spirits they attracted.
For that reason he tried his best to make always cheer her up because a single bad mood can be a slippery slope to depression, especially if she just let her subconscious determine her moods.
“Whats going on?” He asked. “I know you don’t talk to me about it. But is your witchy stuff getting out of hands? Should I be worried?”
Her throat tightened. “Maybe I’m just tired.”
“Fair enough,” He answered calmly. “There is something that we should talk about. Alot happened when you were taking your alone time.”
Chika’s eyes peeked with curiosity. “What happened?”
“Are you really done fighting?”
The samosas arrived before she had to answer the plate releasing a puff of spiced steam. Her whole decision to quit fighting because she was bored was fueled by the fact that she thought she would always have her ancestors backing and protection, she had no way of knowing if she still had the same fighting skills that made her a transcendent fighter were there, there was no need to risk her perfect fighting record.
“Yes, I am,” She responded as she put a piece of samosa in her mouth.
“Then, there is no need to tell you the thing,”
Chika was still curious, but she decided not to push it, “Yeah, shelve it,”
“To surviving twenty-four years of Earth,” Fisayo responded sending another airplane of samosa into her mouth before she could barely swallow what she was chewing.
“And to not setting the smoke alarm off in my kitchen again,” She countered.
They clinked samosas together, laughing, and for a moment the heaviness in her chest loosened.
When the main dishes came, Fisayo tore off a piece of naan and held it out to her. “Taste this and tell me it’s not better than noodles.”
Chika rolled her eyes but leaned forward, taking the bite from his hand. The buttery, garlicky warmth melted across her tongue, and against her will she smiled.
“Fine. You win. But only tonight.”
Fisayo grinned, victorious.  And for now, Chika had no thoughts or worries about her ancestors, the magical key that appeared in her arm or her fighting career. She was just a woman on her birthday, with a friend who refused to let her slip away.
After dinner and a couple of glasses, they both took an uber back home.
The night drive was quiet, almost peaceful. The hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of passing streetlights wrapped Chika and Fisayo in a fragile calm. After the chaos of the fight, the silence almost felt like relief.
Then it happened. A sudden screech of tires, a flash of headlights in the mirror, before Fisayo could even register it, another vehicle cut across their lane. The collision wasn’t brutal, but enough to send their car spinning to the shoulder, the airbags bursting in white clouds.
Dazed, they barely had time to catch their breath when the doors opened. Figures in black stepped out of the shadows, organized, efficient, not a word spoken. Their movements were rehearsed, precise.
Chika and Fisayo glanced at each other, both too stunned to resist. The strangers guided them gently but firmly out of the wreck, almost courteous in their handling, as if violence wasn’t necessary.
No shouting, the weapons glared a quiet inevitability.
As they were escorted into the waiting van, Fisayo squeezed Chika’s hand once. She squeezed back. Neither spoke, but both understood: this was bigger than them.
The van doors shut, sealing the night outside. The highway was silent again, as if nothing had ever happened.
………………………
The van rolled to a stop after what felt like hours. Chika and Fisayo were led through narrow halls, the air heavy with the smell of incense and expensive cigars. The walls were lined with strange masks and weapons from across the world, relics of forgotten wars and hidden arenas.
Finally, they were ushered into a grand chamber. At its center sat a man in a tailored white suit, face half-hidden in the glow of a single golden lamp. His voice was smooth, calm, but carried the weight of command.
“You two are exceptional,” he said, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest of his chair. “The world may cheer for its champions in octagons and stadiums… but the true spectacle happens here.”
He gestured, and the curtains behind him parted. Beyond the glass wall stretched a colossal underground arena, lit by fire and neon. Hundreds of seats circled it, already filling with the glittering elite, celebrities, tycoons, politicians, their laughter echoing like a tide.
“You will fight here,” the man continued. “Not for medals, not for belts. But for the pleasure of those who can pay for glory itself.”
He leaned forward, smiling with unsettling calm.
“You belong to us now. As gladiators. As legends. As entertainment.”
The crowd roared beyond the glass, as if on cue. And for the first time, Chika realized the scale of the world they had just been dragged into, but Fisayo knew exactly what was going on.
When Chika announced her retirement out of boredom, he recieved a letter inviting the both of them to join the Dark trinity tournament and at the end of the letter it specifically said that there would be consequences if they refused as they were not an organisation that anyone told no to
He tried to tell Chika about it but he hadn’t gotten a chance to, even when he tried to during dinner she had said that she wasn’t interested in fighting anymore.
“Don’t worry we would find a way to get out of this,” Chika said, interrupting his train of thought.
“Yes we would,” He found himself blurting out when he really wanted to tell her that he had gotten a warning that this might happen. Somehow that information had lost its importance when she said she didnt want to fight, because would only lead to him receiving blame, and blame would create a bridge between them, one that would not be beneficial to them escaping this place in the long run.

…………….
The mystery man stood in front of Chika and Fisayo a few moments later with a smile on his face.
“Now you fight!” He said, pointing at Fisayo. Who nodded  in response, knowing there was nothing he could do but oblige.
“You can’t just kidnap us, throw us into your circus and expect us to just fight for you,” Chika said defiantly.
“Young lady you should watch your tone when you talk to me. I have what the youths these days call anger issues.”
Chika wanted to jump and say more but, Fisayo quickly grabbed her hands and pulled her to the corner of the room.
“Don’t do anything that would get us killed,”  He said sternly, flashing Chika a serious look that he had never shown her since they had known. “Let us do what they want for now, at least there is a real opening to get out of this place.”
Chika exhaled deeply. He knew that Fisayo was right but she would have preferred if she the one who was fighting and not him.
“One of these days you’ll have to admit I am as good a fighter as you,” Fisayo said to Chika searching her eyes for approval, which she gave to him with a smile.
“Stay loose, and don’t respond to his feints,”
Fisayo nodded back with a huge smile. “Yes mom,”
Security parted the velvet of bodies. The arena opened ike a mouth—circular pit, matte-black canvas rimmed with LED strips that pulse like a slow heartbeat. Above, glass skyboxes brimed with couture and cold smiles: actors, moguls, athletes whose public charities would implode if anyone saw them here. Tablets glow in their laps, live odds, private chats, buy-ins.
Chika’s palm hits the glass of a viewing box. “He’s not warmed up.”
The man in the white suit doesn’t look at her. “Good fighters don’t need warm-ups. They need moments.”
A gate unlatches. Two handlers in black shoved Fisayo forward. No walkout music, no lights. Just the sound of leather on concrete and a tide of hush.
Chika stood behind the glass helpless, she  hated that they didnt even allow her to be his corner man.
From the opposite tunnel: a heavyweight framed in sodium lights. Thick neck, shaved head, shoulders like a door frame. Old elbows, scarred shins. His nickname flickers on the ring’s edge in clean typography: BOROS.
Boros was five inches taller than Fisayo, had the physique of a Greek God and moved like one, Fisayo’s first impression was he was definitely taking Chika’s advice of not trading.
He rolls his wrists, checked the spacing of his feet, to make sure it was in Muay Thai stance, then he began to verbally coach himself, “We are the same weight even if he taller, all I need to do is keep my distance, feight and go for the choke the moment I can.
The fight started.
A single chime. Not a bell—something more expensive.
Fisayo circled orthodox, hands high, feet light. He kept reading and stayed conservative, think Creed footwork in a John Wick nightclub: slick, economical, aware of every angle. He made sure his head did not stay in one place for more than a second.
Boros bored of all the running around rugby tackled him to the ground, causing Fisayo to wince in pain, Boros managed to get off three punches before Fisayo sprawled away, ignoring in pain in his stomach as he kept his hands up and his feet light.
Boros feinted low, then slung  a right low kick. Fisayo checks, but the impact still thuds through his calf. The crowd reacts in murmurs, not roars; this audience consumes violence like wine tasting.
Fisayo continued using his Jab, he jabbed outside, stepped  to right and threw a clean cross that landed on Boros’s right temple.
Boros ate it and kept walking like a tide. The rest of the exchanges were slow with Fisayo only trading for a couple of seconds before finding safe ground.
Three minutes into the first round, they  Clinched against the fence. Boros dug a short elbow over Fisayo’s ear. Fisayo pummeled for inside control, and slipped free.
At the end of Round  Fisayo tries to steal it with a late three piece jab a right, left hook that snaps Boros’s head. The skyboxes flashed as the chime that signified the round had ended echoed in the room, the odds were shifting and money was moving.
Back on the stool, a Fisayo kneeled with water and vaseline. No coach. No advice. Just his consciousness waiting to be separated from his brain.
Round two began a few moments later, the chime dropped them in again.
Boros adjusts as the round began. He began aiming at Fisayo’s body. He threw a left hook downstairs. Fisayo exhaled with the shot, takeing it well.
Boros sends a teep to the solar plexus which folds Fisayo two steps back. The pain did not allow Chika see that Boros hid a right roundhouse behind a shoulder feint and he  buried his shin into Fisayo’s right side. There was a wet crack which was suubtle but unmistakable. Pain flooded in like ice water. Breathing turned into an impossible task.
Chika body went still. She doesn’t pound the glass anymore; she counts his breaths.
Fisayo turtles  to the fence, high guard, his elbows stapled to ribs that threaten mutiny. Boros went hunting sending knees, elbows, a carnival of blunt instruments Fisayo’s way, he wanted to end the fight as quickly as possible.
Fisayo tried, he attempts a collar tie and then a  short knee to break rhythm which allows him to pivot off. He jabbed  from southpaw now, disguising the hurt side behind his lead shoulder as the chime of the bell saves him.
He survives, but he’s hunched when he walks to the stool.
As the pain of getting his body pummeled washed through his body, he thought about quitting, but then he remembered that this was not an exhibition match. His life and Chika’s life depended on the match that he was fighting and he no interest in dying anytime soon.

Fisayo decides his best chance is to keep it simple, he started taking Shallow breaths and he was going to hide his right side by switching stances, make Boros kick again and this time, catch it and make him pay. Fisayo already standing in the middle of the ring before the bell started.
He didnt bother sitting down during the second round rest before the chime, because standing hurts less than sitting up.
The chime for the third round fight began and Fisayo took the Southpaw stance, right hand pawing like a metronome. He showed the body, left open an invitation wrapped in pain.
A few seconds later, Boros took the bait. He turned his hip and sent the kick. Time slows ss Fisayo dropprd weight, scooped the leg under his left arm, teeth clenched against the rib’s scream. He ran Boros backward and pinned  him to the fence, summoning adrenaline from the pits of hell.
Fisayo tripped Boros down and began  to deliver nasty elbows to his face, but Boros rolls away to safety.
Boros frames to stand, but Fisayo floats past his knees and glued his chest to Boro’s back, no squeeze on the broken side, all hook with the legs. A grim, technical migration to control.
As Fisayo’s arms snaked under Boros’ chin. Boros began to fight the top hand as a reslt Fisayo switched to short strikes, nothing pretty, just tasks,  peel, pry, soften.
Fisayo slid the forearm under again, this time palm to bicep, his hand to back of Boros’s head. Rear naked choke. The rib grinds, a white flare behind his eyes. He adjusts the angle so the pressure lives in his forearm, not his torso as he began to squeeze with every ounce of strenght he could muscle.
Chika could not believe her eyes as she kept on cheering and banging on the glass door.
Boros began to buck, his hands became flail.
The referee crouched down to get a good look at Boros as the muscles in his neck threatened to pop. Three seconds later, there it was, A Tap. The referee jumped to push Fisayo away from Boros, saving the predator rom the preys clutches.
The chime was louder this time as the arena exploded.
Fisayo stayyed kneeling, one glove on the mat, the other pressed to his right side. Every breath he took was paid with pain in intrest, at one point he considered not breathing but the pain was worth beign alive.

Chika doesn’t wait for permission. She had already began moving, already at the tunnel gate when they open it. She dropped to him, one hand on his neck, the other hovering over his rib.
“Looks like all the training i have given you paid off,” She said with a smirk on her face. Fisayo could only wince back a response.
“You’ll be fine dont worry,”
Chika was suprised to see two Medtechs in black one with a handheld scanner appear, she did not think this place would look after a wounded fighter. The taller one knelt down to examine Fisayo, “Non-displaced fracture. He needs rest.” He declared a moment later.

The man in white arrives to the ring last, immaculate, as if nothing in the room can touch him. He regarded Fisayo like a curator studied a painting.
“Third round,” He says, pleased. “Audiences love a third round finish,
Chika stood  between them. For a second the handlers hesitate—because the room shifts when she decides it will.
“We’re not your pets,” She says.
He smiles as if that were adorable. “Of course not. You’re headliners.”
“Acquiring you is the smartest business decison I have made and I am going to make you rich in return,”
A contract appeared on a tablet and he placed it in front of Chika. “Since you’re the one wearing the trousers in the relationship read the terms and conditions of the contract before you. Mind you, the choices are you sign or you’re shot in the head. I hope that aids you in making your decision, “
“Who are you?” Chika asked, hoping to get a clue as to what was going on. Was the the darkness that she was supposed to defeat?”
“I am mr nobody, your handler,” He responded with a sinister smile.