Resilience Unvieled and a Chance Encounter

In the sprawling metropolis, where concrete towers stretched toward the sky and the cacophony of city life drowned out whispers from the divine realm, Marcus was now treading the path of a retired champion.

Before today, each day was a perpetual cycle of longing for the ring, the cheers of the crowd, and the adrenaline that coursed through his veins with every bout and its subsequent victory. Marcus was its champion, the only champion in the last 25 years to have an undefeated record up to winning the championship. Marcus's career was that of a rising star, an unlimited future with his potential.

That had all come crashing down around Marcus. After winning the championship two weeks ago he had gotten back to the hotel, high on the victory and celebrating with his manager and sparring partners. Then at the peak of the celebration, Marcus collapsed.

His crew rushed him to the hospital thinking it must have been some alcohol poisoning from how much he had consumed, but instead, they got unexpected news. Marcus hadn't collapsed because of alcohol but from a much darker threat, acute leukemia.

The warning signs had all been there, but Marcus had been ignoring them as they had been occurring while training. Marcus had many symptoms that he didn't take a second glance at: fatigue, nosebleeds, dark easy bruising, and excessive sweating.

Hell, he had had some fevers and chills, but when you push your body to the limits for greatness, Marcus expected some pain. He had just thought he always had a weak pain tolerance. But never leukemia. No one expects to get blood cancer.

With late-stage acute leukemia, the doctor gave him months to live at best. That was the news he got today when he was discharged from the hospital. They had been running tests and experiments on him trying to find out the cause and how bad it was. Once they found out, they gave him his bill and told him to go. So Marcus had walked his way through the city, and he had absentmindedly ended up at the dojo he was a part of.

He wanted to escape his thoughts and the diagnoses and put his all into training, as he always had. But instead of helping him focus, the dojo felt like a theater. All of his coaches and buddies looked at him with nothing but pity, it felt like he was at the zoo. So after a single half-assed spar, Marcus undid his wraps and began to head home through the city.

As the sun set over the horizon the neon lights of the cityscape cast an ethereal glow as Marcus made his way through the bustling streets eager with pedestrians to get home. His steps were heavy with a sense of defeat. He had conquered all his physical battles in life, but here was one that he couldn't win and had no reason to try.

He had traveled overseas to the States alone to find freedom. Back in his hometown in the Phillippines, barkada ran the block and the fighting rings. Every match was rigged, and Marcus never liked being told to lose a match. After he won a match he was supposed to lose, he returned to his childhood home burnt to the ground, alongside his mother.

He had never had a good relationship with his mother in the first place, but the sudden death scared him. Reminded him of his own mortality. So he took the money he made from the fights and came over to the States to start over with his passion. He fought to survive, he had no skill other than fighting.

He was physically fit, sure, but there was no way in hell Marcus would ever be content with a construction job. He wanted the thrill of being in a cage, face to face with someone who was out to kill you. It was an adrenaline rush like no other. Fighting was heroin to Marcus and he couldn't give it up.

But in the process of becoming the best of the best, Marcus had to make sacrifices. He had no siblings, no lover, and his only friends were his sparring partners, but none noteworthy. He lived in a beat-up apartment in Upper East Side New York City, he had a habit of hoarding his money after his old house was burnt down and felt his current accommodations were fine. But now that Marcus was at the top, everything felt empty.

There had been nothing in his life except his fighting spirit and conquering new opponents. But at the top there for no new better opponents to beat. And now with this diagnosis, Marcus for the first time in a decade didn't feel like fighting. All he wanted was to sleep or drink until he couldn't sleep anymore.

Marcus trudged his way out of the crowd and down a maze of alleyways and backstreets before making his way to the corner store beside his apartment. The buzzing light reminded him of his past weeks in the hospital and it served nothing but to sour his mood further. He quickly grabbed a 12-pack of beer, paid, and left without talking to the cashier.

He lived in a quadplex with four others, the one to his left had recently been rented out by a young single mother, and the other two Marcus was sure were crack dens. As Marcus was about to make his way up rickety stairs he saw the woman struggling down the street with enough grocery bags on her arms to compete with bodybuilders. He watched her struggle a bit, before hesitatingly setting his cans down.

"Ma'am, would you like some help with that?" The woman froze for a second, before looking between the weight on her arms and the strange tattooed man in a wife beater in front of her. "I lift weights for situations just like this," Marcus said jokingly, cracking a half-hearted smile. The woman looked inquisitively at him with sharp blue eyes before a smile broke over her tan freckled face.

"I would love some help Mr...."

"Alejandro ma'am, but my friends call me Marcus," Marcus said with a smile before swiftly walking over and easing some of the weight off her arms, wincing at the sharp red lines the bags had made on her hands. He felt her pain, whenever his wraps were on too tight for too long they looked the same way. "If you don't mind me asking Mrs..."

"Sally, but my friends call me Sally," Sally said with a chuckle. Marcus let out a wry grin before continuing as they walked up the steps into her apartment.

"So, Mrs. Sally-"

"Please, just Sally."

"Then Sally, where did you get these groceries? The nearest K-mart is several blocks away. Driving distance to be sure." Sally shuffled through her pockets for her key as she answered,

"You caught me, I went to K-mart, but I have no car for the moment. I'll get it soon, but between a car and a roof, I choose the roof." Sally opened her door revealing a narrow entryway that mirrored his own before heading into the kitchen.

"That's quite the walk to make and my grandmother might crucify me before Jesus if she knew I a single mother such as yourself walk through New York City at night to get groceries," Marcus replied as he set down the groceries and began to help Sally unload the food onto the counter. "In the future don't be a stranger, feel free to borrow my car - with permission of course." Sally stopped at his words and looked at him strangely.

"Just like that. You would let me borrow your car? What would you do if I stole it?"

"Well, it's just a car, isn't it? If you steal it, I always have a taxi. But I don't think you will. You radiate the spirit of Bayanihan."

"Bye-yen-han?" Sally articulated before continuing to unload groceries.

"Bayanihan. It's a Filipino term my grandmother used to say I lacked. A rough translation would mean heroic. But its true meaning is to have the spirit of communal unity and cooperation. Or a spirit to help others willingly."

"You seem to have plenty of Bayanihan," Sally said with a hint of humor.

"I've been working on it," Marcus said with a laugh. They both worked in silence for a few moments as they each finished unloading groceries. "Well Sally, it's been a pleasure, but I won't stay my welcome. Have a wonderful night." As Marcus began to make his way over to the door Sally followed before speaking up.

"I might just have to take you up on that car offer Marcus." She said with a light voice.

"Don't be a stranger!" Marcus said with a laugh as he descended the stairs. Marcus hummed a tune as he walked down, in a much better state than before.

'What a nice lady, bastard of a man that left such a kind woman.' Marcus thought as he reached the bottom of his staircase before realizing his 12-pack was gone.

"Son of-" Marcus said under his breath before making his way up his stairs distraught. 'Damn crackheads.' Marcus reached the top and opened his door smoothly. It was unlocked. 'Damn it man, this is why you keep getting your shit taken, third time this month your door has been unlocked.'

He walked in before hitting the lights and making his way through the silent apartment and plopping down the only sofa he owned.

Marcus thought back to the reasons he had left the Philippines. He had wanted true freedom. Not to be ruled over by thugs with guns who loved power brought by the touch of steel. Not by his narcissistic mother who ignored him for anything but manual labor.

He had come over to escape the cage that he was born into. Marcus had fought his entire life. He fought against his opponents, his circumstances, and the gangs that wanted money.

Everything in life that he had, it was because he kept fighting. He fought to survive. But now he was faced with a battle he couldn't survive. Late-stage acute Leukemia, in 1999 was a death sentence. There was no medicine, no doctor in the world to cure what he had.

The antibiotics that were supposed to be taken, were meant to be taken way sooner. If he started now the chance of survival went from 0% to 10%. Not good odds if any. He had been fighting for so long. He deserved a break.

Marcus pondered over what he would do. It had been a while since he had done anything, he would have to find a hobby or else he would drink himself to death. Where would his money ever go? Charity? Friends? The Dojo? After this evening Marcus would make sure to leave some money and his car for the single mother, it's not like he would need it when he's dead. All of sudden a feminine voice broke through his morbid thoughts.

"So you're just going to stop fighting?" Marcus sprung out of his chair with catlike reflexes before Marcus looked at the woman who was sitting at the dining table in the middle of the kitchen looking at him. She was of African American descent, her skin the same as dark hot chocolate, and wore black baggy joggers that stopped above her ankles and a black and gold tight-fitting sports bra.

She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her tied-up curly light brown hair only enhanced her sharp cheekbones and serious look. A golden wreath tattooed on her naval highlighted her amber eyes as she seemed to peer into his soul. Marcus was too stunned to speak.

"You fight all your life, to stop because someone said that you can't win?"