Rof discovered the building - Broad Street Athletic, situated on the third floor. However, he didn't enter. Instead, he stood across the road at 4:07 a.m., clad in a hoodie, a cup of rapidly cooling coffee from a nearby store in hand. His eyes fixated on the third-floor windows, where a light was on.
A shadow moved across the lit window in a disciplined, rhythmic pattern. It was clear someone was working on a punching bag, the rhythm giving it away; three punches, a pause, two punches, another pause, then four rapid ones. The sequence repeated, not mechanically, but with a thoughtful precision - as if the individual was having a conversation with himself through his fists.
For forty minutes, Rof remained there, observing. He didn't need to go in, he just needed to understand - the timing, the routine, and how a man behaves when he believes no one is watching. At 4:51, the light went off and three minutes later, a man named Silas exited the building.
Dressed in plain gray sweats and old sneakers, Silas looked like any ordinary man. He walked south without seeming to notice anything around him, maintaining a steady pace, unhurried. He passed within twenty feet of where Rof was standing, either not seeing him or choosing not to acknowledge him. With Silas, it was hard to tell the difference.
Rof watched Silas disappear into the distance before finishing his now cold coffee and discarding the cup. He then walked home, a newfound understanding settling within him - not about Silas, but about himself.
He realized that the speed he possessed didn't come from trying harder, or from prayer (though he'd continue praying). It came from paying so much attention that he stopped thinking. He recalled his fight with Tank, when he was so absorbed in the moment that his brain stopped calculating and just moved. His practice wasn't about throwing punches, it was about focusing his attention until it was sharp enough to cut through anything.
He didn't know where this understanding came from, and he didn't question it. When he arrived home, he found his father awake - a rarity at five in the morning. The old man was seated at the kitchen table, a Bible open in front of him. He wasn't reading it, just sitting with the book open, like someone would sit with a letter they've memorized by heart. The lamp cast a warm, intimate glow over the scene.
When Rof entered, his father looked up and gestured for him to sit. Rof did, the cold from the street still clinging to his hoodie. His father observed him for a moment before reaching into his shirt pocket and placing something on the table - an old, faded photograph.
Rof picked it up. It was a picture of him, taken when he was around five or six years old. He was in a room with stark white walls and floor, sitting on what appeared to be a medical chair. His younger self was smiling, revealing a gap-toothed grin, seemingly without a care in the world. There was a man in a lab coat standing behind him, his face partially out of the frame, one hand resting on young Rof's shoulder. The sight of the picture made Rof's chest constrict.
"Where did this come from?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Found it among your mother's belongings," his father replied. "She left a box when she left. I kept it under the bed, never threw it away." He paused. "Couldn't sleep tonight. Started going through it. Found that."
"Who's this man?" Rof questioned.
His father was silent for a moment that stretched too long before answering. "I don't know his name," he said, then added, "I knew he was a doctor, a researcher. Your mother took you to see him when you were five. She said it was for a government-funded child development study." He looked at the photograph without touching it. "I didn't ask enough questions. That was my mistake. I knew something felt off, but I let her convince me it was fine."
The kitchen was eerily quiet.
"What kind of study?" Rof asked.
"I don't know. She never told me. You came home quiet that day. Slept for two days straight. When you woke up, you didn't remember going." His father finally met his gaze, his eyes steady but filled with guilt that had been festering for nineteen years. "You were five. I convinced myself it was nothing. Kids sleep a lot. Kids forget things."
Rof looked at the photograph of his younger self, blissfully ignorant of the fear he should've felt.
Count backward from ten. It won't hurt. It won't hurt.
"I have the other ones," his father said quietly. "Three more. From different days. Three different visits." He closed the Bible. "Son, whatever is happening to you right now - in these fights - I believe it started there. In that room."
The cross around Rof's neck felt icy cold against his chest.
He placed the photograph face down on the table, unable to look at the smiling boy any longer.
"Why are you telling me this now?" Rof asked.
"Because Marcus's visit yesterday reminded me," his father replied, his hands folded on the Bible. "Marcus's son, Gideon, has been having unexplainable episodes since he was young. The doctors said it was neurological, some sort of unusual brain activity they couldn't explain." His father's eyes held a cautious look. "I think Gideon was part of that study too."
The truth hung heavily in the room.
Rof remained motionless.
"I don't know for sure," his father quickly added. "I'm just an old, sick man trying to connect dots that might not connect. Don't do anything rash with this information."
Rof nodded slowly, but his mind had already logged this information away - deep and undisturbed, like it did with things it knew would matter later, even when the reason wasn't immediately clear.
He stood up, picked up the photograph and held it. "Can I keep this?" he asked.
"It's yours," his father replied.
Rof pocketed the photograph, placed a reassuring hand on his father's shoulder for a moment, and then retired to his room. He lay on his mattress on the floor, staring at the ceiling.
Three visits. Three different days. I don't remember any of them.
Outside, Philadelphia continued its relentless rhythm.
Inside Rof Leon, something old, dormant, and patient stirred.
Two more days.