The roar of the crowd had long faded. The stinging sweat had dried on my skin, replaced by the dull ache that now seemed a permanent resident in my bones. Volkov was gone. Blackwood, cleansed, was a place unrecognisable from the viper's nest I’d first stumbled into. Aisling was getting better, her laughter echoing in the hospital room a melody I’d feared I'd never hear again.

They called me a hero. Posters plastered my face across the city, alongside headlines screaming about justice and the downfall of a corrupt empire. "Lucky" O’Connell, the people's champion. It felt… strange. Gratifying, sure, to see Volkov’s twisted face plastered across the news for all the wrong reasons. Satisfying to know the nightmare he’d built was crumbling around him. But 'hero'? That felt like a costume borrowed from a film, not a title earned.

The truth was, I still woke up in the middle of the night, heart hammering, seeing The Butcher’s vacant eyes staring down at me. I still felt the phantom pain of his blows, the sickening crunch of bone against bone. And beneath it all, the nagging guilt, the question that gnawed at my soul: had I done enough? Could I have done more? Had I made deals with the devil that left permanent stains on my conscience?

I sat on the edge of the newly renovated training mat at Blackwood, the scent of disinfectant a welcome change from the stale sweat and fear that had permeated the place before. Razor Riley, looking surprisingly spry for a man who'd spent his life absorbing punishment, watched me from across the room. He’d been instrumental in Volkov’s downfall, his inside knowledge crucial in dismantling the empire. He’d even testified, risking his own neck to expose the rot.

"Mind if I join you, Champ?" he asked, a hint of a smile playing on his weathered face.

"Always, Razor," I replied, waving him over.

He lowered himself onto the mat with a grunt, his knees audibly protesting the movement. "So," he said, looking around the brightly lit gym, "quite a difference, eh? Feels… clean."

"It does," I agreed. "Almost too clean. Like nothing bad ever happened here."

Razor sighed. "It did happen, Liam. We can't forget that. We shouldn't. But we can learn from it. Make sure it never happens again."

That was the crux of it, wasn't it? Forgetting wasn't an option. The scars, both visible and invisible, were a constant reminder. My knuckles were permanently crooked, my left ear a little more cauliflower-esque than the right. But those were the easy ones to deal with. It was the mental scars, the memories of desperation and betrayal, that would take longer to heal.

"What are you thinking about doing?" Razor asked, breaking the silence.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Fighting again, maybe. But… the thought doesn't exactly fill me with joy. Not like it used to."

He nodded, understanding etched on his face. "You've seen the ugly side, Liam. It changes you. Makes you question everything."

"It does," I said, looking down at my hands, the tools that had saved my sister's life, but also inflicted so much pain. "I got a taste of what it's like to be a performer, a showman. Not a fighter."

He studied me for a long moment, those keen eyes seeing through my hesitant words. "You’re more than just a fighter, Liam. You always have been. You've got a fire in you, a desire to do what's right. That's what sets you apart."

His words resonated. He was right. My anger, my frustration, my desperation – they had all fuelled my fight against Volkov. And now that the immediate threat was gone, that energy needed a new outlet.

"I've been thinking," I said, a plan slowly forming in my mind. "About starting a foundation. For young fighters. Offering them support, guidance. Making sure they don't fall into the same traps I did."

Razor's face lit up. "That's… that's a brilliant idea, Liam. A real legacy. Give these kids a fair shake, teach them about contracts, about their rights. Hell, teach them how to spot a Volkov a mile away."

The thought filled me with a sense of purpose I hadn't felt since I was a kid, dreaming of being a professional footballer before life had sucker-punched me into a different reality.

"I want to change things, Razor," I said, my voice firm. "Not just for the fighters here, but for the whole sport. Get rid of the corruption, the exploitation, the… the darkness."

He clapped me on the shoulder, his grip surprisingly strong. "You can do it, Liam. You've got the name, the reputation. And you've got me. I'll help you any way I can."

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of meetings, paperwork, and phone calls. I spoke to lawyers, accountants, and sports administrators. I navigated the bureaucratic labyrinth of setting up a non-profit organisation, learning a whole new set of rules and regulations.

Aisling, slowly recovering, became my biggest cheerleader. Her hospital room transformed into a temporary office, filled with documents and phone chargers. Her optimism was infectious, a constant reminder of why I was doing all this.

"You're going to be amazing, Liam," she said one afternoon, her voice still a little weak, but full of conviction. "You're going to make a real difference."

Her words fueled me, giving me the strength to push through the endless challenges. There were doubters, of course. People who questioned my motives, who whispered that I was just trying to whitewash my past. But I ignored them. I knew what I was doing was right, and that was all that mattered.

We started small, offering free legal advice to young fighters, helping them understand their contracts, and protecting them from predatory managers. We organised workshops on financial literacy and mental health. We created a safe space where fighters could talk about their concerns, without fear of judgment or reprisal.

The response was overwhelming. Fighters from all over the city, and even from other parts of the country, reached out for help. We were making a difference, one fighter at a time.

Of course, the old guard didn't like it. Some promoters and managers, used to exploiting their fighters, saw me as a threat. There were veiled warnings, whispered threats. But I refused to be intimidated. I had faced down Volkov, and I wasn't afraid of anyone else.

One evening, I was working late in the office, finalising the details of an upcoming workshop, when I heard a knock on the door. I looked up to see a familiar face standing in the doorway.

It was Marco "The Mauler" Mancini, the Russian powerhouse I had faced in the final fight at Blackwood. He looked different, subdued. The aggression that had emanated from him in the ring was gone, replaced by a quiet weariness.

"Liam," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "Can I talk to you?"

I nodded, gesturing for him to come in. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped inside.

"I… I wanted to apologise," he said, looking down at his feet. "For everything that happened. For the fight. For being part of Volkov's… mess."

I was taken aback. I had expected anger, resentment, perhaps even a renewed challenge. But not an apology.

"It's okay, Marco," I said, genuinely surprised. "It's all in the past."

"No, it's not okay," he insisted. "I knew what Volkov was doing. I saw the way he treated people. But I was too afraid to speak up. I needed the money. I had a family to support."

I understood. Desperation could make people do terrible things. I knew that better than anyone.

"I wanted to help you, during the fight. I really did" Marco continued. "But Volkov had leverage, the Russian Mob behind him even. I was in over my head. I'm glad you won"

He looked up at me, his eyes filled with regret. "I want to make amends. I want to help you. With your foundation."

I studied him for a long moment, trying to gauge his sincerity. He seemed genuinely remorseful, desperate to atone for his past.

"What did you have in mind?" I asked.

"I could train fighters," he said. "I know a lot about technique, about strategy. And… I know what it's like to be exploited. I can teach them how to protect themselves."

I thought about it for a moment. Marco was a skilled fighter, no doubt. And he had experience that could be invaluable to young athletes.

"Alright, Marco," I said, extending my hand. "You're hired."

A flicker of relief crossed his face as he gripped my hand firmly. "Thank you, Liam," he said. "You won't regret this."

As Marco and I sat, talking for the first time like fellow humans, I realised the fight for justice was a long one. There was no end to it. There were always new battles, new challenges, new scars to be earned. But as long as there were people willing to fight for what was right, there was always hope.

Aisling was out of hospital now, her face glowing, her laughter brighter than ever. She was even talking about going back to university, pursuing her dream of becoming a doctor. As I watched her, I knew I had made the right choices.

The scars remained, a roadmap etched on my soul. But they were also a testament to my strength, my resilience, and my unwavering belief in a better future. They were a reminder that even in the darkest of times, hope could still flourish. And that even the most broken of us can begin again, if you just decide to fight for it. I was no longer just Liam "Lucky" O’Connell. I was something more. I was the man who had beaten Volkov. More importantly, I was the man who was going to stop another Volkov from ever getting that opportunity. And that was a fight I'd gladly take. The fight that lay ahead was the real reason I felt the "Lucky" moniker fit, finally.