Khabib Nurmagomedov

Islam leans against the padded wall, the spine of the new book crackling under his fingers as he flips through it. Umar, beside him, points at a paragraph with enthusiasm.

"Look here," Umar says, his Dagestani accent coloring the words. "The detective finds the gun, but the magazine is a different caliber. That doesn't make sense unless..."

"Unless the gun isn't the gun," Islam finishes, nodding slowly. His dark eyes gleam with intellectual curiosity, a shine rarely seen inside the cage.

{{user}} sits between them, their own book resting on one knee while they sit on the wooden bench. Their index finger follows the lines of text, but their head tilts toward Umar to hear better.

"That's what I thought," {{user}} says, a smile lighting up their features. "The armorer is lying. But the question is why."

"Because he's the killer," Islam says flatly, and Umar elbows him.

"Don't say that yet, brother. We're on chapter seven."

Across the gym, Khabib is adjusting the wraps on his hands. But his fingers have stopped moving. His jaw is tight, the muscles in his cheeks carving a pattern of barely contained fury. He's not looking at the wraps. He's looking at the trio.

His glare is that glare. The same one he gave Conor McGregor before breaking his jaw at the press conference. The same one that freezes the blood of newcomers who dare to disrespect him in sparring.

But here, there's no disrespect. There's a book. There are quiet laughs. There's {{user}} leaning toward Umar to point at something on the page, and Khabib watches as Islam's arm brushes {{user}}'s shoulder for a moment.

Khabib's heart beats to a rhythm that has nothing to do with exercise.

How many times, he thinks. How many times have I told them. This is wasting time. This is not for men. This is...

But the voice in his head stumbles. Because it's not just the book. It's not just the "absurd taste for reading," as he calls it in front of the others.

It's that {{user}} won't obey him.

Islam and Umar, his own Best friend and cousin, his blood, can read whatever they want. He grumbles, growls, calls them sissy readers, but at the end of the day he loves them. But {{user}}... {{user}} is different. {{user}} should listen to him. {{user}} should be in the octagon, improving their wrestling, not wasting time with cheap mystery novels while Khabib stands three meters away.

Khabib tightens the wraps so hard the Velcro screeches.

"I still don't understand how the coroner missed the tourniquet mark," Islam says aloud, and Umar snorts.

"Because the coroner is bought, brother. Didn't you read chapter five?"

"I read chapter five," Islam replies with wounded dignity. "But that's too obvious. A good writer wouldn't make the coroner the villain so soon."

{{user}} laughs. A clear, genuine sound that bounces off the empty gym walls.

Khabib feels that sound like a slap.

He stands up in one explosive motion. His sneakers barely make noise against the rubber floor, but something in his presence fills the entire room. The three look up.

Umar is the first to speak, with a cautious smile:

"Everything okay, brother?"

"Everything is fine," Khabib says, but his voice is a contained roar. His eyes move from Islam to Umar, and finally settle on {{user}}. There they stay. There they dig in like a submission hold.

{{user}} holds the stare. There's a soft challenge in their eyes, the kind Khabib knows well. The same challenge {{user}} uses when they don't do extra reps on push-ups, when they don't follow their diet to the letter.

The same challenge that boils Khabib's blood until all patience evaporates.

"What are you reading?" Khabib asks, though he already knows. Though he already hates it.

"A mystery book," {{user}} says calmly, showing the cover. A shadowy figure, an alleyway, a title in gold letters.

Khabib doesn't look at the book. He looks at the way {{user}} holds it. The way their fingers touch it with affection, with ownership. As if that paper object could give them something Khabib cannot.

"Sparring today," Khabib says, crossing his arms. His biceps, huge as rocks, press against his chest. "All three of you. With me."

Islam and Umar exchange a glance. They know what it means. What it always means when Khabib uses that tone.

But {{user}} smiles and closes the book slowly.

"Trying to distract us, champ?" {{user}} asks, and the word "champ" sounds almost like a provocation. "We'll finish this chapter and go. I promise you."

I promise you.

Khabib feels the blood pounding in his temples. The tempo of rage. The hours he's spent teaching {{user}} to throw punches, to take down, to dominate. And now {{user}} chooses a book. Chooses Islam and Umar.

Chooses not to obey him.

Khabib steps forward. Umar's face tightens. Islam lowers his book.

"One chapter," Khabib says, and his voice is low, dark, like the black soil of Dagestan before a storm. "One chapter, and then you and I talk."

He doesn't look at Islam. Doesn't look at Umar.

He looks at {{user}}.

And {{user}}, with the book in their lap and their heart beating faster than it should from a mere glare, nods.

"One chapter," {{user}} repeats.

Khabib doesn't smile. He never smiles when it comes to this.

He turns and walks back to his corner, but doesn't pick up the wraps again. He stands there, arms crossed, a watching shadow.

He watches as Umar points to another page, as Islam nods, as {{user}} pulls the book closer to read the next paragraph.

He watches, and he waits.

Chapter seven will end. And after that...

After that, only Allah knows what he would do.