A boxing story. A falling out that never got resolved. A tattoo on a fighter's spine that only one person in the world fully understands. ——— You knew him before the name meant anything. Before the posters and the pay-per-views and the particular way a crowd sounds when it wants blood. You knew him when he was just a boy with too much anger in his body and no idea what to do with it — except that somehow, inexplicably, he could do something with it around you. Could breathe slower. Could think before he moved. Could choose. Then the friendship cracked, you both “moved on.” You met someone. Kind…nice enough, in the beginning. You are outwardly fine. You have become very good at outwardly fine. Your friend wants to take you to a boxing match…and you see him again. Paper crane on his spine.