ufclover

[ufclover]

sweet taste of revenge

MATURE!!!! READ THE TAGS!!!!

McGregor is a terrible person here. Conor goes after Islam, Khabib goes after Conor:)

Islam is 21, Khabib is 24, Conor is 27

Also i haven’t proof read this lol.

word count - 18,207

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Islam's scream tore through the night like a ragged blade as Conor ripped away his shirt, leaving his skin exposed to the biting cold air. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum, threatening to shatter them with each brutal beat. The jagged bricks of the alley wall clawed at his back, drawing blood as Conor slammed him against it, again and again, the impacts echoing like gunshots.

"Not so tough without khabib, are you?" Conor sneered, his breath reeking of whiskey, his Irish lilt thick and venomous. "Always hiding behind Khabib. Let's see what he thinks when he finds out what happened to his precious little Isu."

Islam thrashed wildly, his elbow crashing into Conor's jaw, but any satisfaction was swiftly stomped out when Conor's fist plunged into his stomach, doubling him over. Black spots exploded across his vision as he gasped for air, his lungs burning for relief.

"You think that hurts?" Conor laughed cruelly, the sound bouncing off the slick, grimy walls. "Just wait."

Islam's mind was a whirlwind. The training center—it was close, just three blocks away. If he could scream loud enough, someone might hear him. But Conor seemed to sense his desperation, clamping a rough, calloused hand over his mouth, sealing his cry for help.

"Nobody's coming for you," Conor hissed, his eyes glinting like an animal's in the distant streetlight. "This is between us now."

The metallic clink of Conor's belt buckle sent a chill of terror slicing through Islam's veins. Panic surged, giving him a burst of strength, but Conor was heavier, his fighting experience evident in the brutal efficiency with which he pinned Islam's arms.

One thought blazed in Islam's mind: Khabib would annihilate Conor for this. Not in the ring, not for sport—he would utterly destroy him. And a part of Islam wanted that, wanted his brother to unleash his carefully controlled rage.

But another part just wanted to survive the next few hellish minutes.

"When I'm done with you," Conor snarled, grinding Islam's face against the wall, "you'll tell Khabib exactly what happened. I want him thinking about this when he steps into that cage with me."

Islam squeezed his eyes shut, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. Humiliation and pain burned through him like acid. He'd trained his whole life to be strong, to fight—

A distant shout made Conor hesitate. Footsteps echoed toward the alley, and Islam saw his chance. He bit down on Conor's hand, the taste of sweat and dirt making him gag. When Conor recoiled, Islam screamed with every ounce of strength left in his body.

"HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME!"

Conor's hand clamped back over his mouth, choking off his scream. The footsteps faded, leaving Islam in a nightmare of isolation.

"You shouldn't have done that," Conor growled, his eyes darkening to obsidian. He traced a finger down Islam's cheek, making his skin crawl. "You're a beautiful young man. I wouldn't mind a taste."

Islam's stomach churned at the words. He tried to wrench away, but Conor's grip was iron, forcing him to his knees on the cold, filthy concrete.

"Be a good boy," Conor whispered, the sound of his zipper slicing through the night air like a knife.

Before Islam could resist, Conor forced himself into his mouth. Islam gagged, tears streaming down his face as he fought to breathe. His hands pushed against Conor's thighs, but the Irishman only thrust deeper, choking him.

After an eternity of suffering, Conor pulled back, his breath ragged. "Can't finish like this. Not before I've had all of you."

He yanked Islam to his feet, tears streaking down his face as reality crashed over him like a tidal wave.

"Please," Islam sobbed, his voice shattering. "Don't do this. Please, Conor."

His pleas fell on deaf ears. Conor shoved him face-first against the wall, the rough brick biting into his skin. Islam felt his pants being torn away, the night air like ice against his exposed flesh.

"Stop! Please stop!" Islam begged, his words dissolving into desperate sobs.

Conor held up his phone, the red recording light glowing like a malevolent eye. "Say that again," he taunted.

When Conor thrust into him, Islam's scream was raw, primal, the pain blinding and all-consuming. It felt like being ripped apart, his body invaded and shattered.

"It hurts! Please stop! It hurts so badly!" Islam cried out, his voice raw and broken, his sobs mixing with Conor's grunts in the recording.

When it was finally over, Conor zipped up his pants and discarded Islam like trash, leaving him to bleed out on the filthy alley floor. Islam lay there, his body convulsing with shock and pain, his spirit shattered.

After an eternity, he reached for his phone, his fingers shaking violently as he dialed.

"Khabib," he whispered, his voice a ghost of itself. "Please come get me. Please."

He couldn't say more. Didn't need to. Khabib's voice was instantly alert, a lifeline in the darkness.

"Where are you, Isu? I'm coming right now."

Islam managed to describe the location before the phone slipped from his grasp, his strength gone.

The phone slipped from Islam's trembling fingers, clattering to the ground as darkness consumed his vision. Khabib's voice echoed from the tiny speaker, growing more frantic with each unanswered call. "Isu? Isu! Answer me!"

Islam couldn't move. His body felt alien, disconnected from his mind as he lay crumpled against the filthy alley wall. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Every breath sent daggers of pain through his ribs. Between his legs, a sticky warmth spread that he refused to acknowledge.

Minutes blurred into an eternity. The distant wail of a siren. The rumble of traffic just beyond the alley mouth. The world continued to spin while his had shattered into jagged, irreparable pieces.

Headlights suddenly swept across the alley entrance, illuminating the grime-covered walls in harsh white light. A car door slammed. Then footsteps—urgent, pounding footsteps racing toward him.

"Isu!" Khabib's voice tore through the night, raw with panic.

Islam tried to respond, but only a broken whimper escaped his lips. He wanted to hide, to disappear into the shadows. The shame burned hotter than the pain.

The footsteps stopped abruptly. Islam forced his eyes open, blinking against the blood trickling from a cut above his brow. Through the haze, he saw Khabib standing frozen at the edge of the light, his expression transforming from concern to horror.

"Ya Allah," Khabib whispered, the words a prayer and a curse all at once.

Islam tried to cover himself, to salvage some shred of dignity, but his arms wouldn't cooperate. He watched Khabib's face contort, watched as understanding dawned in his brother's eyes.

"Don't look at me," Islam begged, his voice cracking. "Please, don't look."

Khabib's face—always so controlled, so measured—crumpled. His knees hit the concrete as he fell beside Islam, hands hovering uncertainly over his broken body.

"Who?" The single word contained such fury that Islam flinched. "Who did this to you?"

Islam closed his eyes, unable to bear the weight of Khabib's gaze. "Conor," he whispered, the name acid on his tongue.

A sound escaped Khabib then—not quite a growl, not quite a sob. Something primal that seemed to rise from the depths of his soul. His breathing changed, becoming ragged and uneven.

"I'm going to kill him," Khabib said, the words eerily calm despite the storm raging behind his eyes. "I swear on my father's grave, I will end him."

"Khabib, please," Islam reached for him, needing an anchor in the swirling chaos. "Just take me home. Please."

Something in his voice must have cut through Khabib's rage. His brother's expression softened immediately, the murderous glint in his eyes giving way to anguished concern.

"Let me help you," Khabib said, his voice gentler than Islam had ever heard it. He shrugged off his jacket, draping it carefully over Islam's exposed lower half. "Can you stand?"

Islam tried to push himself up, but his legs buckled. A cry of pain escaped him before he could swallow it back.

"It's okay, it's okay," Khabib murmured, the words sounding strange in his mouth—Khabib, who never coddled, who pushed them all to be stronger, better. "I've got you."

With infinite care, Khabib gathered Islam into his arms. Despite his gentleness, pain shot through Islam's body like lightning, and he couldn't suppress the whimper that escaped his lips.

"I'm sorry," Khabib whispered, his voice thick. "I'm so sorry, Isu."

As Khabib carried him toward the car, Islam felt something wet fall onto his cheek. He looked up, startled to see tears streaming silently down his khabib's face. In all their years together, through all the hardships they'd endured, he had never seen Khabib cry.

"Don't," Islam said weakly. "Please don't cry for me."

Khabib's jaw clenched, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Not for you," he said, though the lie was transparent. "For what I will do to him."

At the car, Khabib laid him gently across the backseat. Islam's body screamed in protest at even this careful movement. He bit his lip to keep from crying out again, tasting fresh blood.

Khabib noticed. He always noticed everything. "Hospital first," he said, his tone brooking no argument.

"No!" The word burst from Islam with unexpected force. "No hospitals. No police. No one can know."

"Isu, you need—"

"No one can know!" Islam repeated, grabbing Khabib's wrist with surprising strength. "Promise me. Promise me right now."

Khabib stared at him, conflict raging in his eyes. "You're hurt. You need a doctor."

"What I need," Islam said, his voice breaking, "is for no one to look at me the way you just did. Like I'm... broken. Like I'm less."

"That's not what I—"

"Promise me, Khabib. Please."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken fears. Finally, Khabib nodded, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

"I promise," he said quietly. "But at least let me call Dr. Magomed He's discreet. He won't tell anyone."

Islam closed his eyes, too exhausted to argue further. He heard Khabib close the car door, then the driver's door open and close. The engine rumbled to life.

As they pulled away from the alley, Islam felt something break loose inside him. The tears came suddenly, violently, ripping from his throat in harsh, guttural sobs.

Khabib reached back, one hand leaving the steering wheel to find Islam's. His grip was firm, warm, an anchor in the storm.

"I'm here," Khabib said, his voice steady despite the tears still tracking down his cheeks. "I'm right here, brother. You're not alone."

Islam clung to his hand like a drowning man to a lifeline, his body shaking with the force of his sobs.

"He took everything," Islam choked out between ragged breaths. "Everything."

The car swerved suddenly as Khabib pulled to the side of the road. The next moment, the back door opened and Khabib was there, gathering Islam against his chest, mindful of his injuries but holding him tightly nonetheless.

"No," Khabib said fiercely, his voice vibrating through Islam's body. "He took nothing that matters. Nothing. Do you hear me? Your heart still beats. Your spirit still burns. You are still Islam Makhachev. My brother. My friend. The strongest man I know."

Islam shook his head against Khabib's shoulder. "I couldn't stop him. I tried, but I couldn't—"

"Listen to me," Khabib pulled back, framing Islam's face with his hands, forcing him to meet his gaze. "This shame you feel—it is not yours to carry. It belongs to him. Only to him."

"But I should have—"

"No." Khabib's voice was firm. "There is no 'should have' here. You survived. That is enough. That is everything."

Islam stared into his brother's eyes, searching for the disgust, the disappointment he feared would be there. He found only love, fierce and unwavering, and something else—a rage so cold, so controlled, it made him shiver.

"He will pay for this," Khabib said, the words a solemn vow. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But he will pay."

"I just want to forget," Islam whispered, closing his eyes against the memory of Conor's hands on his body, his breath against his neck.

Khabib's thumb gently wiped away a tear from Islam's cheek. "Some things we cannot forget. But we can learn to carry them differently. And you will not carry this alone. Not for one moment."

They stayed like that, huddled together in the backseat of Khabib's car on the deserted street, until Islam's sobs quieted to hitching breaths. Khabib didn't rush him, didn't pull away. He simply held him, solid and steady as the mountains of their homeland.

When Islam finally exhausted his tears, Khabib carefully helped him lie back down. "Let's get you home. Dr. Magomed will meet us there."

Islam nodded weakly, too drained to protest further. As Khabib returned to the driver's seat, Islam caught sight of his brother's reflection in the rearview mirror. Behind the concern, behind the grief, something deadly lurked in Khabib's eyes—something that promised retribution.

In that moment, despite the pain wracking his body and the shame burning in his soul, Islam felt a flicker of something like hope. Not because of the promise of vengeance, but because in Khabib's unwavering presence, he found proof that he was not, as Conor had intended, destroyed.

Broken, yes. Wounded, deeply. But not destroyed.

And as the car pulled away from the curb, Islam made a silent promise to himself: he would heal. He would rebuild. And one day, the memory of this night would no longer have the power to shatter him.

One day, he would be strong again.

The drive home passed in a haze of pain and exhaustion. Islam drifted in and out of consciousness, the gentle rocking of the car both soothing and agonizing. Each bump in the road sent fresh waves of pain shooting through his body.

When they finally pulled into the driveway of Khabib's home, Islam saw a sleek black car already parked there. A tall figure stood beside it, medical bag in hand.

"Dr. Magomed is here," Khabib said softly. "Can you walk?"

Islam tried to sit up, but his body betrayed him. "I don't think so," he admitted, hating the weakness in his voice.

Khabib nodded once, his jaw tight. "Wait here."

Islam watched through half-lidded eyes as Khabib approached the doctor. They spoke in hushed tones, Dr. Magomed's expression growing increasingly grave. The doctor glanced toward the car, his normally stoic face softening with concern. Islam looked away, unable to bear the weight of another person's pity.

The back door opened, and Khabib was there again, his strong arms gentle as they slid beneath Islam's battered body.

"I told him," Khabib murmured. "Not everything, but enough."

Islam closed his eyes, shame washing over him anew. "I can't face him."

"He is a doctor, Isu. And our friend." Khabib's voice was firm but kind. "He has seen worse."

But not like this, Islam thought. Not someone like me.

Dr. Magomed approached, his footsteps measured, deliberate. He didn't rush forward, didn't make any sudden movements. When he spoke, his voice was the same calm baritone Islam remembered from childhood illnesses and training injuries.

"Islam," he said simply. "Let's get you inside where I can help you."

There was no shock in his voice, no judgment—just the steady professionalism that had earned him the trust of their entire community. Islam felt some of the tension leave his body.

Khabib carried him into the house, through the quiet living room, and into the guest bedroom. The sheets were fresh and clean, smelling faintly of mountain air—the same detergent Khabib's mother had always used. Islam breathed it in, letting the familiar scent ground him.

"I need to examine him," Dr. Magomed said quietly. "It would be best if—"

"I'm not leaving him," Khabib interrupted, his tone brooking no argument.

The doctor studied Khabib's face for a long moment, then nodded. "Very well. But stand back. Give us space."

Khabib reluctantly moved to the corner of the room, his eyes never leaving Islam's face.

Dr. Magomed set his bag on the bedside table and pulled up a chair. "Islam," he said gently. "I know this is difficult, but I need to see your injuries to treat them properly. Do you understand?"

Islam nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

"I will be quick, and as gentle as possible," the doctor promised. "But I must be thorough."

With practiced efficiency, Dr. Magomed helped Islam out of the remains of his clothing. Each movement was clinical, respectful, but Islam couldn't stop the tears that leaked from the corners of his eyes. He heard Khabib's sharp intake of breath as the full extent of his injuries became visible.

Dr. Magomed worked methodically, cleaning cuts, checking for broken bones, applying antiseptic to the raw abrasions on Islam's back and knees. His touch was impersonal but not unkind.

"There is... significant trauma," the doctor said, his voice carefully neutral. "I need to check for internal injuries."

Islam squeezed his eyes shut. "Just do it," he whispered.

The examination that followed was mercifully brief but unbearably humiliating. Islam kept his face turned toward the wall, unable to look at either Khabib or the doctor.

"You have two cracked ribs," Dr. Magomed said when he had finished. "Extensive bruising, multiple lacerations. There is... tearing that will need time to heal. But there appears to be no life-threatening internal damage."

He reached into his bag and removed several items—bandages, antiseptic ointment, painkillers. "I can give you something for the pain now. It will help you sleep."

"Will he be okay?" Khabib's voice came from the corner, tight with barely controlled emotion.

Dr. Magomed glanced at him, then back at Islam. "Physically, yes. With time." He hesitated. "The other healing will take longer."

Islam felt a fresh wave of tears threatening. He blinked them back furiously, refusing to break down again.

The doctor administered a shot of something that spread warmth through Islam's veins, dulling the sharp edges of his pain. As the medication began to take effect, Dr. Magomed carefully dressed his wounds, his movements efficient but gentle.

"You should report this," the doctor said quietly, taping a bandage over a particularly deep cut on Islam's shoulder. "What was done to you is a crime."

"No," Islam said, the word sharper than he intended. "No reports. No police."

Dr. Magomed sighed. "I expected you would say that. But I must advise you—"

"He said no," Khabib cut in, his voice like steel.

The doctor looked between them, then nodded reluctantly. "As you wish. But there are other considerations. You should be tested for—"

"Do whatever tests you need," Islam interrupted, unable to bear hearing the words spoken aloud. "Just... please don't make me talk about it anymore. Not tonight."

Dr. Magomed nodded, his eyes sad but understanding. "I'll draw some blood now. We'll need to follow up in a few weeks."

As the doctor prepared the needle, Khabib moved from his corner to sit on the edge of the bed. He took Islam's hand, squeezing gently.

"You're going to be okay," he said softly. "I promise you."

Islam wanted to believe him. But as the painkiller pulled him toward unconsciousness, all he could think was that nothing would ever be okay again.

Dr. Magomed finished his work, packing his supplies back into his bag. "He needs rest now," he told Khabib. "The medication will keep him asleep through the night. I've left painkillers on the table—one every six hours, no more."

Khabib nodded, his eyes never leaving Islam's face.

"I'll come back tomorrow to check on him," the doctor continued. "Keep the wounds clean. If he develops a fever, call me immediately."

"Thank you," Khabib said, the words inadequate for what they both knew the doctor had done—not just treating Islam's injuries, but preserving his dignity as much as possible.

Dr. Magomed placed a hand on Khabib's shoulder. "You should rest too. There is nothing more you can do for him tonight."

Khabib shook his head. "I'll stay with him."

The doctor didn't argue. He gathered his bag and moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "Khabib," he said quietly. "Whatever you're thinking of doing—don't. It won't help him."

Khabib didn't respond, his gaze fixed on Islam's now-sleeping form.

Dr. Magomed sighed. "Call me if anything changes. Anything at all."

After the doctor left, Khabib sat in the silence of the bedroom, listening to Islam's breathing. It had evened out now, the painkillers granting him temporary peace. In sleep, the lines of pain and shame had smoothed from his face, making him look younger, more vulnerable.

Khabib reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from Islam's forehead. His hand was trembling, though whether from exhaustion or rage, he couldn't tell.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, knowing Islam couldn't hear him. "I should have been there. I should have protected you."

The bruises on Islam's face were darkening already, purple and blue against his pale skin. Khabib's gaze traced each one, memorizing the pattern of violence that had been inflicted on his brother. His chest tightened with a fury so intense it felt like physical pain.

He took out his phone, staring at the screen for a long moment before opening his contacts. His thumb hovered over Conor's name—he had the number from fight promotions, had never deleted it. One call, and he could find him. End this tonight.

Dr. Magomed's warning echoed in his mind. It won't help him.

But it would help me, Khabib thought, his finger still poised above the screen.

A small sound from the bed drew his attention. Islam had shifted in his sleep, his face contorting briefly with pain before the medication pulled him back under. The sight doused Khabib's rage like cold water.

Islam needed him here, not in a jail cell for murder.

Khabib put the phone away and settled into the chair beside the bed. He would wait. There would be time for vengeance later. For now, his only job was to be here when Islam woke, to help him face the first day of a life forever altered.

"I'm here, brother," he whispered, taking Islam's hand in his. "I'm not going anywhere."

His phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number. When he opened it, Conor's voice filled the room, along with Islam's desperate pleas and sobs.

Khabib's hands trembled as he closed the video message. The phone screen went dark, but the sounds—Islam's desperate pleas, his agonized cries, Conor's savage grunts—continued to echo in his mind like a grotesque symphony. He felt his throat constrict, a pressure building behind his eyes that threatened to spill over into tears, but instead hardened into something else entirely. Something cold. Something lethal.

He looked at Islam's sleeping form. His childhood friend, his brother in all but blood, lay curled into himself like a wounded animal. The bruises blooming across his face had already darkened to a sickening purple. Dried blood still clung to the corners of his split lip. Even in sleep, his brow remained furrowed, his body twitching occasionally as if still trying to escape an invisible attacker.

"I will kill him," Khabib whispered in Dagestani, his native tongue feeling more appropriate for such a sacred vow. "With my bare hands, I swear it."

The first light of dawn was creeping through the blinds when Islam stirred. His eyes fluttered open, immediately widening with panic before settling on Khabib. Recognition dawned, followed by shame so profound it made Khabib's chest ache.

"You stayed," Islam whispered, his voice still raw from screaming.

Khabib moved from the chair to the edge of the bed, careful not to make any sudden movements. "Of course I stayed. I will always stay."

Islam's eyes welled with tears. He tried to sit up but winced, a small gasp escaping his lips as pain shot through his body. Khabib gently helped him, adjusting the pillows behind his back.

"Water?" Khabib asked, already reaching for the glass on the nightstand.

Islam nodded, accepting the glass with shaking hands. Khabib had to help him steady it as he drank. The simple act of swallowing seemed to cause him pain.

"someone other than Dr. Magomed should—" Khabib began.

"No doctors," Islam interrupted, panic flashing in his eyes. "Please, Khabib. No one else can know."

"Islam, you need—"

"I said no!" Islam's voice cracked, and he immediately regretted his outburst, his eyes darting away in shame. "I'm sorry. I just... I can't bear for anyone else to know. To see me like this."

Khabib nodded slowly, respecting his friend's wishes even as every instinct screamed at him to get Islam proper medical attention. "At least let me check your injuries again. Make sure nothing is... worse."

Islam's eyes closed briefly, his jaw clenching. Then he gave a small nod.

With gentle hands, Khabib helped Islam remove his shirt. The sight that greeted him made his stomach turn. Bruises marred Islam's torso like a grotesque painting—finger-shaped marks on his arms where he'd been restrained, larger contusions on his ribs and back from being slammed against the wall. Dried blood caked the scratches from the brick wall.

"I'm going to clean these again," Khabib said, his voice carefully controlled as he reached for the first aid kit Dr. Magomed had given him earlier.

As he worked, dabbing antiseptic on the open wounds, he felt Islam trembling beneath his touch.

"Talk to me, Isu," he said softly, using the childhood nickname that had stuck through the years. "Tell me what happened."

Islam stared fixedly at the wall. "You know what happened."

"I want to hear it from you," Khabib said, his hands never pausing in their careful ministrations. "All of it."

Islam's breathing quickened. "Why? So you can torture yourself with the details? So you can blame yourself for not being there?"

Khabib's hands stilled. "Is that what you think? That I want details to feed my guilt?"

Islam finally looked at him, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Isn't that what this is about? You feel responsible because we train together, because we're always together, but the one night we weren't—"

"No," Khabib cut him off firmly. "I ask because I need to understand exactly what he did to you. Every detail, every word he said. So that when I face him, I carry all of it with me. So that nothing is forgotten or forgiven."

A heavy silence fell between them. Islam swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully in his throat.

"I was walking home from the gym," he finally began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Taking the shortcut through the alleyway behind Eighth Street. I heard footsteps behind me, but before I could turn..." His voice faltered.

"It's okay," Khabib murmured, resuming his gentle cleaning of Islam's wounds. "Take your time."

Islam drew a shuddering breath. "He grabbed me from behind. Slammed me against the wall so hard I saw stars. I tried to fight back, Khabib, I swear I did. But he was—he was so much stronger than I expected. And he'd been drinking. I could smell it on him. It made him wild, unpredictable."

Khabib nodded, encouraging him to continue while fighting to keep his own expression neutral despite the rage boiling inside him.

"He kept saying things about you. That he was going to send you a message. That he wanted you to know what he'd done to me before you faced him in the cage." Islam's voice broke. "He called me 'Khabib's little pet.' Said he was going to show me what it felt like to be... to be broken."

Khabib's hand tightened around the antiseptic wipe, his knuckles whitening. He forced himself to relax, not wanting Islam to mistake his anger for judgment.

"When he tore my clothes," Islam continued, his eyes now fixed on some distant point beyond the room, "I knew what was going to happen. I begged him to stop. I offered him money, told him people would be looking for me. But he just laughed. Said that was the point—he wanted people to know. Wanted you to know."

Tears were flowing freely down Islam's face now. Khabib felt his own eyes burning but refused to let his emotions overtake him. Islam needed his strength now, not his weakness.

"The pain was..." Islam shook his head, unable to find words. "I've been hurt before. Training injuries, fights. But this was different. It wasn't just the physical pain. It was feeling so... helpless. So violated. Like he was taking something from me that I could never get back."

Khabib's hand moved to Islam's, squeezing gently. "You are still you, Isu. He took nothing that matters. Your heart, your courage—those things he cannot touch."

Islam's eyes met his, desperate for reassurance. "But I feel different. Like I'm... damaged now."

"No," Khabib said firmly. "You are wounded, not damaged. Wounds heal. And you will heal too. I promise you this."

Islam nodded, though his eyes betrayed his doubt. "After he... finished, he just left me there. Like garbage. Told me to be sure to tell you who did it. That's when he recorded that... that message." His voice hardened slightly. "He wanted me to beg. To cry. And I did. I couldn't help it, Khabib. It hurt so much, and I was so afraid."

"There is no shame in pain," Khabib said softly. "No shame in fear. The shame belongs to him alone."

Islam's shoulders slumped, as if the weight of his confession had physically exhausted him. "When he left, I couldn't move at first. Everything hurt. I felt... broken. But then I thought of you. I knew you would come if I called. That you wouldn't... wouldn't judge me."

"Never," Khabib vowed, his voice thick with emotion. "Never in this life would I judge you for this."

They sat in silence for a long moment, the only sound Islam's ragged breathing and the gentle rustle of bandages as Khabib finished tending to his wounds.

"What happens now?" Islam finally asked, his voice small, almost childlike.

Khabib helped him back into a clean shirt before answering. "Now you rest. You heal. And I..."

"You what?" Islam pressed when Khabib didn't continue.

Khabib's eyes darkened. "I prepare."

"For the fight?"

"Yes."

Islam studied his friend's face. "You're planning something beyond the fight, aren't you?"

Khabib's expression remained impassive. "The fight is all that matters now."

"Khabib," Islam grabbed his wrist, surprising both of them with the sudden movement. "Promise me you won't do anything stupid. I couldn't bear it if you ended up in prison because of me."

Khabib covered Islam's hand with his own. "I promise I will do nothing that would take me away from you. You need me now more than ever, and I will be here."

It wasn't exactly the promise Islam had asked for, but it was the only one Khabib could honestly give.

Islam's phone buzzed on the nightstand. He flinched at the sound, and Khabib immediately reached for it, checking the screen.

"It's Coach," he said. "Asking where you are. Training started an hour ago."

Panic flashed across Islam's face. "What do we tell him? I can't—I can't go like this. I can't face everyone."

"I'll handle it," Khabib assured him, typing out a quick message. "Food poisoning. You'll be out for a few days."

Relief washed over Islam's features. "Thank you."

Khabib set the phone down and stood. "You should try to eat something. I'll make soup."

Islam nodded, though the thought of food made his stomach turn. As Khabib moved toward the door, Islam called after him.

"Khabib?"

He turned back. "Yes?"

Islam's eyes were haunted, vulnerable. "Last night, when you found me... I've never seen that look on your face before. Like something inside you... broke."

Khabib's expression softened. "Not broke. Changed." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "When we were boys, my father taught us that fighting is only honorable when it has purpose. When it protects the innocent, defends the weak. Last night, I failed in that purpose."

"It wasn't your fault," Islam insisted.

"Perhaps not. But it changes nothing. I have always fought with discipline, with control. For sport, for honor." His eyes hardened. "But now I have a new purpose."

He left the room before Islam could respond, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor.

In the kitchen, Khabib moved mechanically, filling a pot with water, adding vegetables and chicken for the soup. His mind was elsewhere—replaying the video message Conor had sent, hearing Islam's screams, seeing the bruises on his friend's body.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting Coach again, but instead found another message from the unknown number. His jaw clenched as he opened it.

A single line of text: "Hope your boy is walking okay today. Tell him thanks for the good time."

The message glowed on the screen, each word pulsing with malice. Khabib's hands went still, the knife he'd been using to chop vegetables frozen mid-air. Heat surged through his body, his vision narrowing until all he could see were those words, mocking him, mocking Islam.

Hope your boy is walking okay today. Tell him thanks for the good time.

The knife clattered to the cutting board. Khabib gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white, trying to steady his breathing. The rage he'd been carefully containing since finding Islam broken in that alley threatened to explode outward, to consume everything in its path.

He read the message again, each word burning into his mind like a brand. The casual cruelty of it, the arrogance. Conor wasn't just content with what he'd done—he wanted to twist the knife deeper, to ensure the wound stayed fresh and bleeding.

Khabib's first instinct was to respond, to threaten, to promise the kind of retribution that would make Conor regret the day he was born. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, trembling with fury. But something stopped him. Responding would give Conor what he wanted—acknowledgment, engagement, power.

Instead, Khabib took a screenshot of the message, saving it as evidence. Then he blocked the number, though he knew it wouldn't stop Conor for long if he wanted to reach them again.

The soup was forgotten as Khabib paced the kitchen, his mind racing. Should he tell Islam about the message? It would only hurt him more, remind him of his trauma when he was already struggling to process it. But keeping it from him felt like another violation, another choice being taken away.

A soft sound from the hallway made him turn. Islam stood in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame. He'd managed to pull on a pair of loose sweatpants, but even that simple act had clearly cost him. His face was ashen, beaded with sweat from the effort of walking to the kitchen.

"You shouldn't be up," Khabib said, quickly pocketing his phone. "The doctor said—"

"I heard your phone," Islam interrupted, his voice still raw. "Was it him?"

Khabib hesitated, torn between protection and honesty. The look in Islam's eyes decided for him—there had been enough lies and manipulation already.

"Yes," he admitted. "Another message."

Islam's shoulders slumped, his eyes closing briefly. "What did it say?"

"It doesn't matter. I've blocked the number."

"Tell me what it said, Khabib." The words were quiet but firm. "I need to know."

Khabib crossed the kitchen, gently guiding Islam to a chair. He sat across from him, their knees almost touching in the small space.

"He asked if you were walking okay," Khabib said, his voice low and controlled. He watched Islam's face carefully, noticing how his friend's jaw tightened, the small muscle near his temple pulsing. "He also asked if you remembered his—" Khabib paused, searching for the right words, "—his 'special goodbye.'"

Islam's hands curled into fists on the tabletop. The kitchen light caught the thin white scar across his left knuckle, a reminder of their first street fight together when they were boys.

"Conor's just trying to get under your skin," Khabib continued, resting a steady hand on Islam's forearm. "He knows he can't face either of us in a fair fight anymore."

"It's not about fighting." Islam's voice was barely audible. He stared at a spot on the wall, his eyes distant. "He's reminding me that he can still reach us. That he hasn't forgotten."

Khabib leaned forward. "Isu, listen to me. He's nothing. A coward sending text messages because he's afraid to show his face."

Islam finally met Khabib's gaze. "Did you respond?"

"No. I blocked him immediately." Khabib squeezed Islam's arm gently. "But I saved screenshots. Just in case."

Khabib's phone vibrated again. Another message from the unknown number. His stomach tightened as he opened it, expecting more taunting words. Instead, he found a video attachment.

"What is it?" Islam asked, noticing how Khabib's expression hardened.

Khabib's thumb hovered over the play button. Something told him he shouldn't watch it, not here, not with Islam sitting across from him. But before he could decide, the video began to play automatically.

The grainy footage showed a dimly lit alley—the same alley where he'd found Islam. But this was earlier, before he'd arrived. The camera angle shifted, focusing on Islam's face, contorted in pain and fear. Conor's voice came through, slurred with alcohol but unmistakable.

"Open wide for the champion," Conor growled.

Khabib's hand clenched around the phone as the footage showed Conor forcing himself into Islam's mouth. Islam gagged violently, tears streaming down his face as he struggled to breathe. The choking sounds filled the kitchen, Islam's desperate attempts to pull away only met with Conor shoving deeper, laughing as Islam fought for air.

Khabib slammed the phone face-down on the table, cutting off the video. His entire body trembled with rage, his vision blurring at the edges. He couldn't look at Islam, couldn't bear to see the shame and humiliation that would be written across his face.

The silence in the kitchen was deafening. Only their ragged breathing disturbed it.

"Why didn't you tell me about this part?" Khabib finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "About what he did to your..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

Islam's face had drained of all color. He stared at the overturned phone as if it were a venomous snake. "I couldn't," he whispered. "It was too... I couldn't say the words."

Khabib forced himself to meet Islam's gaze. "You told me everything else. Why not this?"

"Because I..." Islam's voice broke. "Because I knew what it would do to you. What you would do." His hands twisted in his lap. "And because it made me feel... less of a man. To be used like that."

Khabib reached across the table, covering Islam's trembling hands with his own. "Nothing he did to you changes who you are. Nothing."

"He recorded it all," Islam said, his voice hollow. "He has videos of everything. What if he shares them? What if everyone sees?"

The thought hadn't occurred to Khabib, and it hit him like a physical blow. The MMA community was small, tightly knit. If those videos got out...

"He won't," Khabib said with more certainty than he felt. "He knows what would happen to him if he did."

Islam shook his head slowly. "You don't understand. He wants to destroy me. To destroy us. He said so, while he was..." He gestured vaguely at the phone. "He said this was just the beginning."

Khabib's blood ran cold. "The beginning of what?"

"I don't know," Islam admitted. "But he kept talking about how everyone would see. How everyone would know what happened to Khabib's little brother."

Khabib stood abruptly, needing to move, to do something with the violent energy coursing through him. He paced the small kitchen, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"I should have told you everything," Islam said quietly. "I'm sorry."

Khabib stopped pacing. "No," he said firmly. "Don't apologize. Not for this. Not ever for this."

He returned to the table, kneeling beside Islam's chair so they were at eye level. "Listen to me. What happened to you—all of it—was violence. Not sex, not pleasure. Violence. And the only person who should feel shame is the one who committed that violence."

Islam nodded, though his eyes still held doubt.

"We will get through this," Khabib continued. "Together. As we have always done."

"And the videos?" Islam asked, his voice small.

Khabib's jaw tightened. "I will deal with Conor. And the videos."

"How?"

"Let me worry about that." Khabib stood, retrieving his phone from the table. "For now, you need to rest. To heal."

Islam caught his wrist. "Promise me you won't do anything reckless. Not yet."

Khabib looked down at his friend, at the bruises darkening on his face, at the split lip and haunted eyes. He thought of the video he'd just seen, of Islam choking and crying as Conor violated him.

"I promise I will be careful," he said carefully. "Now go back to bed. I'll bring you soup when it's ready."

Islam studied his face for a long moment, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with the promise. He stood shakily, wincing at the movement.

"Let me help you," Khabib said, sliding an arm around Islam's waist to support him.

As they made their slow way back to the bedroom, Khabib's mind was racing. He had promised to be careful, and he would keep that promise. What he would do to Conor McGregor would be calculated, precise—and devastating.

No one would ever hurt Islam again. Not while Khabib drew breath.

Islam watched as Khabib left the room, closing the door softly behind him. The faint sounds of movement in the kitchen filtered through the walls—the clink of a pot, the rush of water from the tap, the rhythmic thud of a knife against a cutting board. Khabib was making soup, just as he'd promised.

The familiarity of these sounds should have been comforting, but nothing felt familiar anymore. Not the guest room with its cream-colored walls and neatly arranged furniture. Not the soft mattress beneath him that couldn't ease the throbbing pain radiating through his body. Not even his own skin, which felt like a foreign, contaminated thing stretched over his bones.

Islam shifted, wincing as fresh pain lanced through his ribs. Dr. Magomed had said they were cracked, not broken. As if that distinction mattered. Broken or cracked, each breath was agony, each movement a reminder of hands that had pinned him down, fists that had pummeled his flesh.

He closed his eyes, but the darkness behind his eyelids only made the memories more vivid. Conor's face, twisted with malice. The stench of whiskey and sweat. The rough brick wall scraping his cheek raw. The sickening, tearing pain as—

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a notification. Islam reached for it automatically, grateful for any distraction from the horror show in his mind.

Unknown number.

His heart stuttered. Something cold and heavy settled in the pit of his stomach.

Islam's thumb hovered over the screen, trembling slightly. He should ignore it. Delete it without opening. But a terrible compulsion seized him, the same morbid curiosity that makes people slow down to stare at car wrecks.

He tapped the notification.

The video began to play.

Conor's face filled the screen, his expression a grotesque mask of pleasure. The camera panned down, revealing his hand wrapped around his erect penis, stroking rhythmically. Islam's name fell from his lips like a curse, a desecration.

"Islam... fuck, Islam..."

Islam's gorge rose. The phone slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, clattering onto the bed beside him. But the video continued to play, Conor's grunts and moans filling the quiet room.

"Remember this being inside of you baby? Wanna go again?"

The words appeared in a text bubble beneath the video, searing themselves into Islam's brain.

A violent shudder racked his body. He lunged for the phone, desperate to silence the obscene sounds, but his ribs screamed in protest. A cry of pain escaped him as he fell back against the pillows, tears springing to his eyes.

The video kept playing. Conor's breathing grew more labored, his movements more frantic. Islam could only watch in paralyzed horror, unable to look away yet unable to bear what he was seeing.

When Conor finally climaxed with a guttural moan of Islam's name, something broke inside him. The thin veneer of control he'd been clinging to shattered completely.

Islam's hand shot out, grabbing the phone and hurling it across the room with all the strength he could muster. It hit the wall with a crack, the screen splintering before it fell to the floor, finally silent.

A wail built in his chest, pushing against his cracked ribs, clawing its way up his throat. He tried to swallow it back, to maintain some last shred of dignity, but it was too powerful to contain. The sound that tore from him was barely human—a howl of rage and shame and violation so profound it seemed to come from somewhere outside himself.

He curled into himself, arms wrapped around his middle as if he could physically hold the pieces of himself together. The sobs that followed were violent, convulsive, each one sending fresh waves of pain through his damaged body. But the physical agony was nothing compared to the sense of defilement that consumed him.

Conor hadn't just attacked him. He'd recorded it. He was still watching it. Still getting off on it. And now he wanted more.

Islam's stomach heaved. He barely made it to the edge of the bed before vomiting onto the floor, the meager contents of his stomach splattering against the hardwood. The acid burned his throat, bringing fresh tears to his eyes.

He could never escape this. The realization hit him with crushing force. Even if the physical wounds healed, even if the memory faded with time, Conor would always have that video. Would always have the power to drag him back to that alley with the tap of a button.

Islam's gaze drifted to the shattered phone across the room. He needed to delete the message. Erase it completely. But what if Conor sent it again? What if he sent it to others? To Khabib? To their teammates?

A fresh wave of panic seized him. He threw back the covers, ignoring the screaming protest from his body. He had to get to the phone. Had to delete the message before Khabib saw it.

His feet hit the floor, but his legs buckled immediately. Islam crashed to his knees beside the puddle of vomit, a strangled cry escaping him as pain exploded through his ribs and the torn, abused flesh between his legs.

The door flew open.

"Isu!" Khabib stood in the doorway, a bowl of steaming soup in his hands. His eyes widened as he took in the scene—Islam on the floor, the puddle of vomit, the shattered phone against the far wall.

Islam couldn't bear to look at him. Couldn't bear to see the moment when Khabib realized what had happened, what was still happening.

"Go away," he choked out, the words muffled by his sobs. "Please, just go away."

But Khabib was already setting the soup down on the dresser, already crossing the room in three long strides. He knelt beside Islam, hands outstretched but hesitating, afraid to touch, to hurt.

"What happened?" Khabib's voice was low, urgent. "Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor?"

Islam shook his head violently, unable to form words through the sobs that continued to rack his body.

Khabib's gaze traveled to the shattered phone, then back to Islam's face. Understanding dawned in his eyes.

"Did he contact you?" The question was gentle, but Islam could hear the current of rage beneath it, barely contained.

Islam nodded, a fresh wave of shame washing over him. He felt dirty, contaminated, as if Conor's filth had seeped into his very pores.

"Let me see." Khabib was already moving toward the phone.

"No!" Islam's voice cracked with desperation. "Don't look at it. Please, Khabib. Don't."

Khabib froze, torn between respecting Islam's wishes and needing to know exactly what had caused this reaction. After a moment's hesitation, he returned to Islam's side, crouching down to meet his eyes.

"Okay," he said softly. "I won't look. But you need to tell me what he sent."

Islam shook his head again, words failing him. How could he possibly describe the video? The text? The casual cruelty of it all?

"Isu," Khabib's voice was firm but gentle. "I can't help you if I don't know what's happening."

Islam drew a shuddering breath, the air catching painfully in his lungs. "He... he sent a video." The words felt like glass in his throat. "Of himself. Doing... things. Saying my name."

Khabib's expression darkened, his jaw clenching so tight Islam could hear his teeth grind together.

"And a message," Islam continued, the words spilling out now, unstoppable. "Asking if I wanted... wanted him to... again."

A sound escaped Khabib then—not quite a growl, not quite a sob. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white with strain.

"I need to delete it," Islam whispered, fresh tears tracking down his cheeks. "Before anyone else sees it. Before he sends it to someone else."

Khabib nodded once, sharply. "I'll get it. Don't move."

He retrieved the phone, careful not to look at the screen as he brought it back to Islam. The glass was cracked, but the device still functioned. Islam's hands trembled violently as he took it, his fingers clumsy as he navigated to the message.

"Don't watch," he pleaded, unable to bear the thought of Khabib seeing him so utterly degraded.

Khabib turned away, his shoulders rigid with tension. Islam quickly deleted the message, then the conversation thread entirely. But the relief he expected didn't come. The video was gone from his phone, but not from Conor's. Not from his mind.

A fresh sob bubbled up from his chest. "It's not enough," he choked out. "He still has it. He can still send it again. To anyone."

Khabib turned back to him, his expression carved from stone. Only his eyes betrayed the fury raging within, dark and dangerous as a winter storm.

"Give me the phone," he said, his voice unnaturally calm.

Islam hesitated, then handed it over. Khabib examined the shattered screen, his face unreadable.

"I'm going to take care of this," he said finally. "But first, you need to get back into bed. You're hurting yourself more."

Before Islam could protest, Khabib had scooped him up with surprising gentleness, careful to avoid putting pressure on his ribs. He carried him back to the bed, settling him against the pillows with the same care one might handle a wounded bird.

"The soup can wait," Khabib said, noticing Islam's gaze drift to the forgotten bowl on the dresser. "First, I need to clean this up."

He disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a damp towel and a small trash bin. As he knelt to clean the vomit from the floor, Islam watched him with a mixture of gratitude and shame.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For all of this."

Khabib's head snapped up, his eyes fierce. "Don't," he said sharply. "Don't apologize. Not to me. Not for this."

"But I—"

"No." Khabib cut him off, his voice brooking no argument. "This is not your fault. None of it."

He finished cleaning in silence, then disappeared again to dispose of the soiled towel. When he returned, his expression had softened, though the dangerous light still lingered in his eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, perching carefully on the edge of the bed.

Islam shook his head, exhaustion washing over him in a sudden wave. The emotional outburst had drained what little energy he had left.

"That's okay," Khabib said gently. "You don't have to talk. But I need you to listen."

Islam met his gaze reluctantly, bracing himself for pity, for disgust, for the inevitable change in how Khabib would see him from now on.

"I'm going to fix this," Khabib said, his voice low and steady. "The video, the messages—all of it. He will never contact you again. Do you understand?"

Islam wanted to believe him.

"I promise, Isu," Khabib's voice was a solemn vow. "He won't hurt you again."

Islam nodded, wanting desperately to believe him. The certainty in Khabib's eyes was reassuring, a solid foundation when everything else felt like shifting sand.

"Try to rest now," Khabib said, adjusting the blankets around Islam. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."

As Khabib stood to leave, Islam caught his wrist. "Thank you," he whispered. "For everything."

A ghost of a smile touched Khabib's lips. "We are brothers. There is no need for thanks."

He left, closing the door softly behind him. Islam sank back against the pillows, exhaustion pulling at him like a physical weight. Despite the pain still radiating through his body, his eyelids grew heavy. The emotional storm had drained what little energy he had left.

Just before sleep claimed him, a single thought drifted through his mind: Khabib would keep him safe. He always had.

---

Islam awoke hours later to the sound of his phone buzzing. Someone had replaced his shattered device with a new one – Khabib's doing, no doubt. The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the bedroom floor. His body still ached, but the sharp edges of pain had dulled, either from the medication or simply from hours of stillness.

He reached for the phone, squinting at the screen. A message from Coach, asking how he was feeling. Islam typed a quick response, the lie coming easily now. Food poisoning. Getting better. Back to training soon.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. Islam strained to hear any sign of Khabib – footsteps in the kitchen, the murmur of a phone conversation, even the soft sounds of prayer that often filled the home at this time of day. Nothing.

A flicker of unease passed through him. "Khabib?" he called out, his voice still raw.

No answer.

Islam pushed himself up, wincing as his ribs protested the movement. The medication had worn off, leaving him acutely aware of each injury. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing his weight before standing fully.

The hallway was empty, the kitchen beyond it dark. Islam made his slow way through the house, calling Khabib's name again. The living room was undisturbed, Khabib's prayer mat still rolled neatly in the corner.

A note on the coffee table caught his eye. He picked it up, immediately recognizing Khabib's precise handwriting.

"Taking care of business. Stay inside. Lock the doors. Back soon. -K"

Islam's stomach clenched. Taking care of business. He knew exactly what that meant. Khabib was going after Conor.

He should call him, warn him not to do anything stupid. But his new phone didn't have Khabib's number saved yet. Islam cursed under his breath, frustration building. He was helpless again, just as he had been in that alley.

A sound from the backyard made him freeze. The soft crunch of footsteps on gravel. Islam's heart rate spiked, adrenaline flooding his system. Khabib returning? Or someone else?

The back door was slightly ajar, swaying gently in the evening breeze. Islam was certain he'd checked it earlier – it had been closed, locked. Unless Khabib had left it open when he went out? He'd been so careful about security otherwise.

Islam moved toward the door, intent on closing and locking it. The setting sun cast long shadows across the yard, turning familiar shapes into ominous silhouettes. Something moved in his peripheral vision – a darker shadow detaching from the side of the house.

Before he could react, the shadow lunged forward. The door burst open, slamming into Islam's shoulder. He stumbled backward, pain exploding through his already injured body.

Conor McGregor stood in the doorway, his face twisted in a cruel smile.

"Hello, beautiful," he drawled, the Irish lilt in his voice making the words sound even more sinister. "Miss me?"

Terror seized Islam, freezing him in place. This couldn't be happening. Not again. Not here, in Khabib's home – the one place he'd felt safe.

Conor stepped into the kitchen, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "Your watchdog is gone, I see. Perfect timing."

Islam's mind raced. The front door was too far. His phone was in the bedroom. He was still too weak to fight – his ribs screamed with every breath, and the rest of his injuries made quick movement impossible.

"Get out," he managed, his voice steadier than he expected. "Khabib will be back any minute."

Conor laughed, the sound sending ice through Islam's veins. "No, he won't. He's halfway across town, chasing ghosts. I made sure of that."

Islam backed away slowly, his eyes darting around for anything he could use as a weapon. The knife block was on the counter behind Conor. The heavy cast iron pan was in the sink, also out of reach.

"What do you want?" Islam asked, buying time, praying someone would come – a neighbor, a teammate, anyone.

Conor's eyes raked over him, lingering on the visible bruises on his face and neck. "I think you know exactly what I want." He took a step forward. "I've been thinking about you. About us. About how good you felt."

Bile rose in Islam's throat. "There is no 'us,'" he spat, disgust momentarily overriding his fear.

Something dangerous flashed in Conor's eyes. "That's not what you said in the alley. Not what your body said."

"I said no. I begged you to stop," Islam's voice cracked. "You raped me."

Conor's expression hardened. "Call it what you want. I call it taking what's mine." He closed the distance between them in two quick strides.

Islam tried to dodge, to run, but his injured body betrayed him. Conor caught him easily, one hand clamping over his mouth, the other twisting his arm behind his back. Fresh pain exploded through Islam's already injured shoulder.

"Make a sound, and I'll break it," Conor hissed in his ear, applying pressure to the twisted arm until Islam whimpered against his palm. "That's it. Nice and quiet."

Islam's mind screamed in denial as Conor began dragging him backward through the kitchen. Not again. Please God, not again. He struggled weakly, but each movement sent fresh waves of agony through his battered body.

Conor kicked open the back door, hauling Islam across the small yard toward a car parked in the alley behind the house. The evening air was cool against Islam's skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. Or perhaps that was fear, bone-deep and paralyzing.

"You should be thanking me," Conor murmured, his lips brushing against Islam's ear. "I could have taken you right there in the house. Left you for Khabib to find. But I'm feeling generous today."

Islam's feet dragged across the gravel, each step sending jolts of pain through his abused body. His mind raced, searching desperately for a way out.

Conor tightened his grip, his palm pressing so hard against Islam's mouth that his teeth cut into the inside of his lip. Blood pooled on his tongue as Conor dragged him the final few steps to the waiting car. The world narrowed to pinpoints of sensation—gravel digging into his bare feet, the vicious grip twisting his arm, the hot breath against his ear.

"You've been on my mind, beautiful," Conor whispered, his voice a sickening caress. "Couldn't stop thinking about our little date."

Islam thrashed weakly, but each movement sent shards of pain through his cracked ribs. Conor yanked the car door open with his free hand and shoved Islam inside, following quickly and slamming the door. The locks clicked down with a sound like a death sentence.

The car smelled of leather and whiskey and something else—something that made Islam's stomach turn. Conor's cologne. The same scent that had filled his nostrils in that alley, that had permeated his clothes, his skin, his nightmares.

"Alone at last," Conor said, his face splitting into a predatory grin. He ran a finger down Islam's cheek, catching a tear Islam hadn't realized was falling. "Already crying for me? We haven't even started yet."

Islam jerked away from the touch, pressing himself against the passenger door. His hand fumbled for the handle, but Conor caught his wrist, twisting until Islam gasped in pain.

"None of that now," Conor chided, as if scolding a child. "We have unfinished business, you and I."

"Please," Islam whispered, the word scraping his raw throat. "Don't do this again. I'm still—I'm still hurt from before."

Conor's eyes darkened with something that might have been arousal or anger or both. "That's what makes it exciting, isn't it? Knowing I've marked you already. That I was the first to have you like that."

Islam's skin crawled at the words. "You're sick," he spat, finding a fragment of courage in his desperation. "Khabib will kill you for this."

"Khabib," Conor sneered, his grip tightening painfully on Islam's wrist. "Always hiding behind big brother. Where is he now, hm? Chasing shadows across town while I'm here with his precious little Isu." He leaned closer, his breath hot against Islam's face. "Did you tell him how you sounded when I fucked you? How you begged? How you cried?"

Fresh tears spilled down Islam's cheeks, shame burning through him like acid. He tried to look away, but Conor grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.

"You're so beautiful when you cry," Conor murmured, his thumb brushing roughly over Islam's split lip. "Makes me hard just looking at you."

To Islam's horror, Conor began to unbuckle his belt, the metallic clink sending a bolt of terror through him. Memories flooded back—the alley, the pain, the helplessness. His breath came in short, panicked gasps.

"No, please," he begged, his voice breaking. "I can't—I'm still hurt there. Please, I'm bleeding, I can't take it again."

Something shifted in Conor's expression—not compassion, but perhaps a flicker of calculation. His hand stilled on his belt buckle. "Still hurting, are you?" A slow, cruel smile spread across his face. "Well, I'm a reasonable man. I can work with that."

Relief washed through Islam, but it was short-lived. Conor's hand moved from his belt to Islam's sweatpants, fingers hooking into the waistband.

"No!" Islam cried, trying to push Conor's hands away. "Please, I told you—"

"And I heard you," Conor snapped, irritation flashing in his eyes. "I'm not going to fuck you again. Not today, anyway." His hands retreated from Islam's waistband, but the predatory gleam remained in his eyes. "But I'm still horny, and you still owe me."

Islam shook his head frantically, pressing himself harder against the door, as if he could somehow pass through it by sheer force of will. "I don't owe you anything."

Conor's hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of Islam's hair and yanking his head back. "You owe me everything," he hissed. "Your body, your dignity, your fucking soul if I want it."

The pain in his scalp was nothing compared to the terror gripping Islam's heart. He watched in horror as Conor unzipped his pants with his free hand, fishing out his already hard cock.

"Open your mouth," Conor ordered, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

Islam clenched his jaw, turning his face away as far as Conor's grip on his hair would allow. "No," he choked out. "I won't."

Conor's face darkened. He released Islam's hair only to deliver a stinging slap across his face. The blow reignited the pain in Islam's already bruised cheek, making stars explode behind his eyes.

"Open. Your. Mouth." Each word was punctuated with a tug on Islam's hair, forcing his head back at an uncomfortable angle.

Islam kept his lips pressed firmly together, tears streaming freely down his face now. He wouldn't do this. He couldn't.

Conor's patience snapped. He pinched Islam's nose shut with one hand, cutting off his air supply. Islam struggled, trying to break free, but Conor held firm. Seconds ticked by. Islam's lungs began to burn. Spots danced in his vision. Finally, instinct overrode will—he gasped for air.

In that moment of vulnerability, Conor forced himself into Islam's mouth. The invasion was sudden, violent. Islam gagged as Conor hit the back of his throat, his body convulsing in protest.

"That's it," Conor groaned, his free hand reaching for his phone. "Just like that."

Through tear-blurred eyes, Islam saw the red recording light on Conor's phone. A fresh wave of humiliation crashed over him. Not only was this happening again, but Conor was documenting it, creating another piece of evidence to torment him with later.

"Look at the camera," Conor demanded, shoving himself deeper. "I want to see those pretty eyes."

Islam closed his eyes instead, trying to retreat somewhere deep inside himself, somewhere Conor couldn't reach. But Conor wouldn't allow even that small escape. He tugged sharply on Islam's hair.

"I said look at the camera," he growled. "Or I'll make this much worse for you."

Islam forced his eyes open, staring blankly at the phone's camera lens. Tears streamed down his face, dripping onto Conor's hand where it gripped his jaw. His throat burned, his gag reflex constantly triggering as Conor thrust in and out.

"Beautiful," Conor murmured, angling the phone to capture Islam's face clearly. "So fucking beautiful like this."

The car windows had begun to fog with their breath, creating a claustrophobic bubble isolated from the outside world. No one could see in. No one would know what was happening just feet from Khabib's home.

Islam's mind fractured, one part of him enduring the physical violation while another floated somewhere above, disconnected from the horror. He focused on the condensation forming intricate patterns on the window, on the distant sound of a dog barking, on anything but the reality of what was happening to him.

Conor's breathing grew more ragged, his movements more erratic. "Gonna come," he panted, the camera shaking slightly in his hand. "Gonna come in that pretty mouth."

Islam tried to pull away, but Conor held him firmly in place. "Swallow it," he ordered. "All of it."

When it happened, Islam had no choice. Conor held his jaw shut, forcing him to swallow or choke. The taste was bitter, vile. His stomach heaved in protest, but there was nowhere for the sickness to go.

Conor finally released him, tucking himself away with a satisfied sigh. Islam immediately turned toward the door, retching violently. Nothing came up—his stomach was empty, had been since he'd vomited earlier—but his body convulsed with the effort nonetheless.

"Such a drama queen," Conor laughed, checking the video on his phone. "Looks good, though. Very convincing."

Islam huddled against the door, his body trembling uncontrollably. He felt hollowed out, as if something essential had been scooped from inside him, leaving only an empty shell behind.

To his horror, Conor reached for him again. Not with violence this time, but with a twisted parody of tenderness. His fingers traced Islam's jawline, tilting his face toward him.

"Don't touch me," Islam whispered, the words barely audible.

Conor ignored him, leaning in to press his lips against Islam's. The kiss was possessive, invasive, his tongue forcing its way into Islam's mouth as if claiming territory. Islam remained rigid, unresponsive, tears leaking silently from the corners of his eyes.

When Conor finally pulled back, his hand drifted lower, brushing over Islam's chest, his stomach, coming to rest on his groin. Even through the fabric of his sweatpants, the touch made Islam flinch as if burned.

"Nothing?" Conor smirked, squeezing roughly. "Not enjoying our time together?"

Islam turned his face away, shame burning through him. "Please stop," he whispered. "Haven't you done enough?"

Something in his broken tone must have satisfied Conor's sadistic appetite. He withdrew his hand, leaning back in his seat with a self-satisfied smile.

"For now," he said, reaching across Islam to unlock the passenger door. "Get out."

Islam stared at him, disbelieving. Was it over? Just like that?

"I said get out," Conor repeated, his voice hardening. "Unless you want round two?"

Islam fumbled for the door handle, his fingers numb and clumsy. When the door finally swung open, the cool evening air hit his face like a slap, bringing him back to himself. He half-fell, half-climbed out of the car, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him.

Conor leaned across the seat, looking up at him with that same predatory smile. "You were delicious, by the way," he called, his voice carrying in the quiet night. "Sweet as honey. I'll be back for another taste soon."

The car door slammed shut, the engine roaring to life. Islam stood frozen as Conor peeled away, tires screeching against the pavement. Only when the taillights disappeared around the corner did his legs finally give out.

He collapsed to his knees on the rough gravel, retching again, desperate to expel any trace of Conor from his body. But nothing came up except bitter bile that burned his already raw throat.

The world spun around him, reality fragmenting at the edges. Islam pressed his forehead against the cool ground, trying to anchor himself, to remember how to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Simple instructions his body seemed to have forgotten.

Time lost all meaning as Islam huddled on the gravel, his body shaking uncontrollably. The taste of Conor lingered in his mouth like poison, making him gag repeatedly though there was nothing left to expel. His mind refused to process what had just happened—again. How Conor had found him. How easily he'd been overpowered. How the violation had been recorded, another trophy for Conor to keep, to threaten him with.

A car engine rumbled in the distance, growing louder. Islam's heart seized with terror. Was Conor coming back? Had he decided he wasn't finished after all? Islam tried to push himself up, to run, to hide, but his limbs wouldn't cooperate. He collapsed back onto the gravel, curling into himself as headlights swept across the alley.

The car screeched to a halt. A door slammed. Footsteps pounded toward him.

"Isu!" Khabib's voice cut through the fog of Islam's panic. "Ya Allah, Isu!"

Islam couldn't look up, couldn't bear to see the horror on Khabib's face. Shame washed over him in suffocating waves. It had happened again. He had let it happen again.

Strong hands gently turned him over. Khabib's face swam into view, contorted with rage and fear and something else—a devastating understanding that made Islam want to disappear into the earth.

"He was here," Khabib said, not a question but a statement filled with quiet fury. "Conor was here."

Islam nodded, a broken sob escaping his raw throat. The admission seemed to physically affect Khabib; his entire body went rigid, his breathing shallow and controlled in the way it always was before a fight.

"Did he..." Khabib couldn't finish the question, his eyes moving over Islam's body, searching for new injuries.

"Not like before," Islam whispered, the words scraping his throat. "But he... my mouth... he made me..."

Understanding dawned in Khabib's eyes. For a moment, pure, unfiltered rage transformed his features into something almost unrecognizable. Then, with visible effort, he controlled it, focusing instead on Islam.

"Can you stand?" he asked, his voice unnaturally gentle.

Islam tried, but his legs buckled. Without hesitation, Khabib scooped him up, cradling him against his chest like a child. The familiar scent of his brother—mint tea and the faint spice of his aftershave—momentarily cut through the stench of Conor that seemed to cling to Islam's skin.

"I should have been here," Khabib murmured as he carried Islam back toward the house. "I'm sorry, Isu. I'm so sorry."

"He knew you were gone," Islam managed between shuddering breaths. "Said he made sure of it."

Khabib's jaw tightened, but he said nothing as he carried Islam through the back door and into the bathroom. He set Islam down carefully on the closed toilet lid, then turned to start the shower.

"You need to wash," he said quietly, testing the water temperature with his hand. "To get his... to get clean."

Islam nodded numbly. The idea of washing away any trace of Conor was the only thing that made sense in a world that had tilted on its axis.

"Can you manage alone?" Khabib asked, his eyes carefully averted, preserving what little dignity Islam had left.

"Yes," Islam whispered, though he wasn't sure his legs would support him.

Khabib nodded, backing toward the door. "I'll be right outside. Call if you need me."

When the door closed, Islam sat motionless for a long moment, staring at the steam rising from the shower. Then, mechanically, he began to strip off his clothes, wincing as the movement pulled at his injuries. When he was naked, he avoided looking in the mirror, not wanting to see the wreck of his body, the evidence of his shame.

The hot water stung his cuts and scrapes, but Islam welcomed the pain. It was clean pain, honest pain. Not like the violation that had left invisible wounds deeper than any physical injury. He scrubbed his skin until it was raw, gargled and spat until his throat burned, desperate to remove any trace of Conor from his body.

But no amount of soap or water could wash away the memory.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in the clean clothes Khabib had left outside the door, he found his brother waiting in the hallway. Khabib's face was composed, but his eyes burned with a cold fire Islam had never seen before.

"You should lie down," Khabib said, gesturing toward the bedroom.

Islam shook his head. The thought of being alone, of being vulnerable again, sent a fresh wave of panic through him. "I can't. Not yet."

Khabib studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Kitchen, then. You need to eat something."

Islam followed him, his body moving on autopilot. In the kitchen, Khabib pulled out a chair for him before moving to reheat the soup that had been forgotten earlier. The domestic normality of the scene was surreal after what had happened.

"Tell me everything," Khabib said as he set the steaming bowl in front of Islam. "From the beginning."

Islam's hands trembled as he picked up the spoon. The soup smelled good—rich and hearty—but his stomach clenched at the thought of eating. Still, he took a small sip, if only to delay having to speak.

"I woke up and you were gone," he began, his voice hollow. "I found your note. Then I heard something in the backyard. I thought it might be you coming back."

Khabib's expression darkened. "Go on."

Islam took another sip of soup, the warm liquid soothing his raw throat. "He was waiting. He knew you weren't here. Said he made sure of it." A thought occurred to him. "The text you got—was it from him? A trap?"

Khabib nodded, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. "A video of you, supposedly taken moments before. But it was from yesterday. I realized too late."

Islam closed his eyes, a fresh wave of shame washing over him. "He had a car waiting in the alley. He dragged me to it. I tried to fight, Khabib, I swear I did, but I was too weak. Everything still hurts from before."

"This is not your fault," Khabib said fiercely. "None of it."

Islam couldn't meet his eyes. "He made me... he put himself in my mouth. Recorded it on his phone." His voice broke. "Made me look at the camera. Said it was beautiful."

A sound escaped Khabib then—half growl, half sob. His fist came down on the table with such force that the soup bowl jumped, liquid sloshing over the sides. Islam flinched at the sudden movement, his body automatically bracing for violence.

Khabib immediately regretted his outburst. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice softening. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"It's okay," Islam whispered, though his heart still raced. "I understand."

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the ticking of the kitchen clock.

"What else?" Khabib finally asked, his voice carefully controlled.

Islam swallowed hard. "He... he kissed me. Touched me. Said he'd be back for more." The last words emerged as a broken whisper. "I can't do this again, Khabib. I can't survive it a third time."

Khabib reached across the table, his hand covering Islam's. "You won't have to," he promised, his voice deadly quiet. "He will never touch you again. I swear it on my father's grave."

The conviction in his voice was absolute. For the first time since the nightmare began, Islam felt a flicker of hope.

"Eat," Khabib urged gently. "You need your strength."

Islam managed a few more spoonfuls before pushing the bowl away. "I can't. My stomach..."

Khabib nodded in understanding. "That's enough for now. You should rest."

This time, Islam didn't protest as Khabib led him back to the bedroom. The clean sheets and soft pillow beckoned, his body suddenly heavy with exhaustion. Khabib helped him lie down, pulling the blanket up to his chin as if he were a child.

"I'll be right here," Khabib said, settling into the chair beside the bed. "I won't leave you alone again."

Islam's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "For being so weak. For letting this happen."

"No." Khabib's voice was firm. "You are not weak. You are the strongest person I know. To endure what you have endured and still have the courage to speak of it—that is strength beyond measure."

Islam wanted to believe him, but shame and self-loathing had taken root too deeply. He turned his face into the pillow, unable to bear the weight of Khabib's gaze any longer.

"Sleep now," Khabib said softly. "I'll be here when you wake."

Exhaustion finally claimed him, pulling him down into merciful darkness.

---

Khabib watched as Islam's breathing evened out, the lines of pain and shame on his face softening in sleep. Only when he was certain his friend was truly asleep did he allow the mask of calm to slip, revealing the storm raging beneath.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, his stomach clenching when he saw another message from an unknown number. His first instinct was to delete it, to spare himself and Islam any further torment. But something made him open it.

A video began to play automatically. Islam on his knees in a car, tears streaming down his face as Conor forced himself into his mouth. The camera angle captured everything—Islam's closed eyes, the bruises on his face, the way his body trembled with each sob.

A text message followed: "Round 2 was even better than the first. Your boy tastes like fear and shame. Sweet dreams, Eagle."

The phone slipped from Khabib's suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the floor. Blood roared in his ears, his vision narrowing to a pinpoint as rage unlike anything he'd ever known consumed him. This wasn't the controlled fury he channeled in the cage. This was something primal, something deadly.

Conor had violated Islam twice now. Had recorded it, had taunted them with the evidence. And he was promising more.

Khabib's hands trembled as he picked up the phone. With careful precision, he took screenshots of the text message, saving them to a secure folder. Evidence. Then he blocked the number, knowing it was futile but needing to do something, anything, to protect Islam from further torment.

His mind raced through options, discarding each one as quickly as it formed. Going to the police would mean exposing Islam's trauma to the world. The videos would become evidence, would be seen by strangers, might even leak to the public. Islam would never recover from such exposure.

Fighting Conor in the cage wouldn't be enough. The rules would protect him, would prevent Khabib from exacting the kind of justice this crime demanded.

That left only one option.

Khabib sat by Islam's bedside late into the night, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Each breath seemed like a small victory—proof that despite everything, Islam was still here, still fighting. The pale moonlight filtering through the blinds cast strange shadows across his friend's face, highlighting the bruises that marred his skin.

A plan began to form in Khabib's mind. Not a fighter's strategy of attack and defense, but something darker, more primal. A hunter's trap.

He knew Conor would return. The messages made that clear enough. The man's obsession with hurting Islam had become a sick game—one that Khabib intended to end permanently.

Gently, so as not to wake Islam, Khabib rose from the chair and moved to the window. The street below was empty, quiet. He pulled out his phone and stared at the blank screen for a long moment before typing a message to Coach:

"Taking Islam to mountains for recovery. Back in one week. No visitors."

The lie would buy them time, ensure no one came looking for them. What Khabib planned required privacy.

Next, he opened his phone's settings and enabled location sharing on all his social media accounts. A digital breadcrumb trail that would lead Conor exactly where Khabib wanted him.

By morning, Khabib had everything prepared. When Islam woke, blinking against the harsh sunlight now streaming through the window, Khabib was already dressed, a small duffel bag packed by the door.

"Where are you going?" Islam asked, his voice still rough from sleep and trauma.

Khabib sat on the edge of the bed, his expression carefully composed. "I need to get supplies. Food, medicine. We're running low."

Fear flashed across Islam's face. "No. Don't leave me alone. Please."

"It will only be for a few hours," Khabib said, reaching out to squeeze Islam's shoulder. "The doors will be locked. No one will get in."

"That's what we thought last time," Islam whispered, his eyes haunted.

Khabib leaned closer. "Listen to me, Isu. I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

Islam studied his face, searching for something. After a moment, he nodded slowly. "I trust you."

"Good." Khabib stood, retrieving something from his pocket. "I got you a new phone. My number is already programmed in. If anything happens—anything at all—you call me immediately."

Islam took the phone, his hands steadier than they had been the day before. "When will you be back?"

"Before dark," Khabib promised. "Try to rest while I'm gone. Take the medication Dr. Magomed left. It will help with the pain."

Islam nodded again, though his eyes still held doubt.

Khabib headed for the door, pausing to look back at his friend. "Remember, Isu. Lock the doors behind me. Don't open them for anyone but me."

"I will," Islam said, pulling himself up straighter against the pillows, as if trying to appear stronger than he felt.

Khabib nodded once, then left, closing the door firmly behind him. He waited in the hallway until he heard the click of the lock, then moved through the house, checking each window, each potential entry point. Satisfied that everything was secure, he slipped out the front door.

Instead of heading to his car, Khabib circled around to the back of the house. The small shed in the corner of the yard had rarely been used since he'd moved in, but today it would serve a purpose. He unlocked it quickly and slipped inside, leaving the door cracked just enough to maintain a view of the house.

Then he settled in to wait, his phone open to Instagram where he'd just posted a story: a picture of the local grocery store with the caption "Stocking up. Long day ahead."

The bait was set.

Hours passed. The sun climbed higher in the sky, turning the shed into an oven. Sweat trickled down Khabib's back, but he remained motionless, patient. This was no different from hunting in the mountains of Dagestan as a boy—the long hours of stillness, the focused attention, the absolute certainty that eventually, the prey would come.

It was nearly noon when a car pulled up slowly at the end of the alley. Khabib's muscles tensed as he recognized the sleek black vehicle—the same one Islam had described. The same one from the video.

Conor emerged, glancing furtively up and down the street before making his way toward the house. He moved with the confidence of a predator who believed himself unseen, unaccountable.

Khabib's hand tightened around his phone, thumb hovering over the emergency call button. One press and this would end differently—police, witnesses, justice through proper channels. But the thought of Islam having to testify, having to watch those videos played in a courtroom, having his trauma dissected by strangers...

No. Some things must be handled personally.

Conor disappeared around the side of the house. Khabib counted to thirty, giving him time to try the back door, to find it locked, to search for another way in. Then he slipped out of the shed and followed, moving silently across the yard.

As expected, Conor had found the kitchen window—the one Khabib had deliberately left unlocked, its screen carefully removed. The Irishman was already halfway through, his upper body disappearing into the house as Khabib approached.

Khabib waited until Conor had fully entered before making his move. He climbed through the window with practiced ease, landing soundlessly on the kitchen floor. From down the hallway came the soft creak of floorboards—Conor moving toward the bedrooms.

Khabib followed, keeping to the shadows, his footsteps masked by Conor's own movements. He watched as Conor paused outside Islam's door, testing the handle. Finding it unlocked—just as Khabib had left it—he pushed it open slowly.

Islam lay in bed, seemingly asleep, the covers pulled up to his chin. His face was turned toward the wall, only the top of his head visible. In the dim light of the room, with the curtains drawn, it was impossible to see that the figure in the bed was not Islam at all, but pillows arranged beneath the blankets, a dark hoodie bunched at the top to mimic Islam's hair.

Conor stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the motionless form. Then he stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.

Khabib moved to the door, pressing his ear against it. He heard Conor's footsteps crossing the room, the soft rustle of clothing as he leaned over the bed.

"Wake up, beautiful," Conor's voice drifted through the door, soft but menacing. "Time for round three."

When there was no response, Conor spoke again, his tone hardening. "Playing possum won't save you. I know you're awake."

The sound of the blankets being yanked back. A moment of silence. Then a curse.

"What the—"

Khabib pushed the door open.

Conor whirled around, his face contorting with surprise and then—briefly—fear. It was quickly replaced by a sneer, but Khabib had seen it. That flash of terror. It sent a surge of satisfaction through him.

"Where is he?" Conor demanded, recovering his composure. "Where's your little pet?"

Khabib said nothing, simply closing the door behind him. The soft click of the lock engaging seemed to echo in the silent room.

Conor's eyes darted around, searching for an escape route. Finding none, he squared his shoulders, his posture shifting to that of a fighter preparing for combat.

"So this was a trap," he said, his Irish accent thickening with anger. "Clever. But what's your plan now, Eagle? Beat me up? Kill me? You'll spend the rest of your life in prison."

Khabib remained silent, his face impassive as he moved further into the room, positioning himself between Conor and the door.

"Nothing to say?" Conor taunted. "Where's all that Dagestani pride now? Or maybe you're embarrassed. Couldn't protect your boy, could you? Had to listen to him cry while I fucked him."

Something dangerous flashed in Khabib's eyes, but still he said nothing. His silence seemed to unnerve Conor more than any words could have.

"He was tight, you know," Conor continued, growing more explicit, more vicious as he sought to provoke a reaction. "Virgin tight. Cried like a bitch when I—"

Khabib moved so quickly that Conor had no time to defend himself. One moment he was standing by the bed, the next he was pinned against the wall, Khabib's forearm pressed against his throat, cutting off his words mid-sentence.

"You talk too much," Khabib said, his voice terrifyingly calm.

Conor tried to break free, but Khabib increased the pressure on his throat, just enough to make breathing difficult without cutting it off entirely. Panic flared in Conor's eyes.

"What happened to the big man who likes to hurt those weaker than him?" Khabib asked, his face inches from Conor's. "Not so brave now, are you?"

Conor's hands clawed at Khabib's arm, trying to relieve the pressure on his windpipe. "Let... go," he gasped.

Khabib eased back slightly, allowing Conor to draw a ragged breath. "You came here looking for Islam," he said, his voice still unnervingly calm. "Why?"

Conor glared at him, defiant despite his position. "You know why."

"Say it," Khabib demanded, pressing harder again. "I want to hear you say it."

"To fuck him again," Conor spat, his face reddening with lack of oxygen. "To make him cry while you watched. To break him completely."

Khabib nodded slowly, as if Conor had confirmed something he already knew. "And how would you feel," he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper, "if someone did that to you?"

Fear flickered across Conor's face again, more pronounced this time. "You wouldn't dare."

Khabib smiled then, a cold, predatory smile that never reached his eyes. "Wouldn't I?"

In one swift movement, Khabib spun Conor around, slamming him face-first against the wall with such force that the plaster cracked. Before Conor could recover, Khabib had his arms pinned behind his back, held in a grip so tight that the bones ground together painfully.

"This is how it feels," Khabib said, his mouth close to Conor's ear. "To be helpless. To know that whatever happens next, you cannot stop it."

"Get off me!" Conor bucked against him, trying to break free, but Khabib's weight and strength held him immobile.

"Is that what Islam said?" Khabib asked, forcing Conor's face harder against the wall. "Did he beg you to stop? Did you listen?"

Conor's struggles grew more desperate. "This is assault! I'll have you arrested!”

"Like I should have had you arrested?" Khabib hissed, his grip tightening around Conor's wrists. "For what you did to Islam?"

Conor struggled against the wall, his face pressed so hard against the plaster that his words came out muffled. "It wasn't rape if he wanted it."

Something snapped inside Khabib. The fragile thread of control he'd been clinging to dissolved completely. With one savage movement, he grabbed Conor by the hair and slammed his head against the wall. Not hard enough to knock him unconscious—Khabib wanted him awake for what came next.

"He begged you to stop," Khabib growled, his accent thickening with rage. "He cried. He bled. And you recorded it."

Conor's laughter was strained but still defiant. "Your little brother makes pretty sounds when he cries. Did he show you the videos? Did you watch them together?"

Khabib's hand moved to Conor's belt, yanking it loose with a single violent motion. The metallic clink echoed in the quiet room.

"What are you doing?" For the first time, real fear crept into Conor's voice.

"What you did to Islam," Khabib replied, his voice terrifyingly calm. "An eye for an eye. Isn't that what you understand?"

Conor renewed his struggles, twisting against Khabib's iron grip. "You're bluffing. You wouldn't—"

Khabib wrenched Conor's pants down in one brutal movement. The Irishman's bravado cracked, panic flooding his voice.

"Stop! This isn't—you can't—"

"Did Islam say these words to you?" Khabib asked, pressing his body against Conor's back, pinning him more firmly to the wall. "Did he beg like this?"

"Get off me!" Conor's voice rose, the cockiness completely gone now. "I'll fucking kill you for this!"

Khabib leaned closer, his breath hot against Conor's ear. "More threats? When you are the one helpless? The one about to be violated?"

His free hand moved around to Conor's front, gripping his throat. "I want you to feel everything Islam felt. The fear. The shame. The pain."

"You're sick," Conor spat, still trying to break free. "You're no better than—"

"Than you?" Khabib finished for him. "The difference is, you deserve this."

With his knee, Khabib forced Conor's legs apart. The Irishman's body went rigid with terror.

"No," he gasped, his voice suddenly small. "Please. Don't do this."

"Ah," Khabib said, a grim satisfaction in his tone. "Now you beg. Did Islam's begging stop you?"

Conor's next words came out in a rush. "I'll delete the videos. All of them. I won't tell anyone what happened here. Just let me go."

"Bargaining now?" Khabib's hand moved lower, unfastening his own pants. "Islam had nothing to offer you. No mercy was shown to him."

Real panic seized Conor then. He thrashed violently against Khabib's hold, his movements growing increasingly desperate. "You can't do this! You're supposed to be the good one! The honorable one!"

"Honor?" Khabib's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "What do you know of honor? You, who attacks those weaker than yourself? You, who takes pleasure in others' pain?"

He positioned himself behind Conor, who had gone completely still, like prey in the jaws of a predator.

"Please," Conor whispered, his voice breaking. "Not like this."

"Did Islam's pleas move you to mercy?" Khabib asked, tightening his grip on Conor's throat. "Did his tears make you stop?"

Without further warning, Khabib thrust forward, entering Conor with brutal force. The Irishman's scream was raw, primal—the sound of a man experiencing a pain he'd never imagined possible.

"Is this how tight Islam was?" Khabib asked, his voice cold as he established a punishing rhythm. "Did he scream like this when you tore him open?"

Conor's body convulsed with each thrust, his screams dissolving into broken sobs. "Stop! Please! It hurts!"

"Good," Khabib grunted, increasing the force of his movements. "Remember this pain. Carry it with you. Know that this is what you did to an innocent boy."

Tears streamed down Conor's face, his body trembling uncontrollably. Blood trickled down his thighs, a stark testament to the violence being inflicted upon him.

"I'm sorry," he gasped between sobs. "I'm sorry, please stop."

"Sorry?" Khabib laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "You're not sorry for what you did. You're sorry you're being punished for it."

He gripped Conor's hair, wrenching his head back at a painful angle. "Did Islam apologize to you? Did he beg your forgiveness while you violated him?"

Conor could only sob in response, his body jerking with each brutal thrust.

"Answer me!" Khabib demanded, twisting Conor's arm higher up his back until the bones ground together painfully.

"Yes!" Conor cried out. "He apologized! He begged! He did everything I told him to!"

The admission sent a fresh wave of rage through Khabib. The image of Islam—proud, strong Islam—reduced to begging this monster for mercy was almost more than he could bear.

"And did you stop?" he asked, his voice deadly quiet.

Conor's silence was answer enough.

"I thought not," Khabib said, his pace becoming more punishing. "Neither will I."

Conor's legs began to give out, his body sagging against the wall. Only Khabib's grip kept him upright as the violation continued.

"Please," he whispered, his voice so broken it was barely recognizable. "I can't... I can't take anymore."

"Islam had no choice but to take it," Khabib replied mercilessly. "All of it. Again and again."

He reached around, grabbing Conor's phone from his pocket. "You like to record your crimes? Let's make a memory of this one."

Horror flashed across Conor's tear-streaked face as Khabib held the phone up, the camera facing them.

"No," Conor moaned. "Not that. Please."

Khabib tapped the record button. "Look at the camera," he ordered, echoing Conor's own words from the video. "I want to see those pretty eyes."

When Conor kept his face turned away, Khabib wrenched his head around, forcing him to face the lens. "I said look at the camera."

Conor's eyes, bloodshot and swimming with tears, finally met the camera's unblinking eye. The utter desolation in them might have moved Khabib to pity once. Not today.

"Tell the camera who you are," Khabib instructed, his voice cold.

Conor remained silent, his body shuddering with each painful thrust.

Khabib twisted his arm higher. "Say it."

"Conor McGregor," he finally gasped, the words barely audible through his sobs.

"And what are you?"

Confusion flickered across Conor's face, quickly replaced by pain as Khabib drove into him harder.

"A rapist," Khabib supplied. "Say it. 'I am a rapist.'"

"No," Conor whispered. "I can't—"

Khabib's hand moved to Conor's throat, squeezing until the Irishman's face began to redden. "Say it, or I swear I will choke the life from you right here."

The threat, delivered with such cold certainty, broke through Conor's last resistance.

"I'm a rapist," he choked out, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks.

"Louder," Khabib demanded, loosening his grip just enough to allow speech.

"I'm a rapist!" Conor cried, his voice cracking. "Please, just stop!"

Khabib continued recording, capturing every sob, every plea, every moment of Conor's degradation. Just as Conor had done to Islam.

"How does it feel?" he asked, his voice a low growl in Conor's ear. "To be the victim? To be used? To be nothing but a body for someone else's pleasure?"

Conor couldn't answer, his body wracked with sobs. Blood and other fluids ran down his legs, pooling on the floor beneath them.

"This is justice," Khabib continued, his pace relentless. "This is what you deserve."

As Khabib neared his climax, a flicker of doubt passed through his mind. This wasn't who he was. This wasn't what his father had taught him. Vengeance, yes—but not this kind of cruelty, not this desecration.

But then he remembered Islam's broken body in that alley. The videos Conor had sent, taunting them with evidence of his crimes. The way Islam still flinched at sudden movements, still woke screaming from nightmares.

No, this wasn't who Khabib was. But for Islam, he would become someone else. Someone capable of delivering the justice that the law could not.

When it was finally over, Khabib stepped back, allowing Conor to collapse to the floor. The Irishman curled into himself, his body shaking with silent sobs, blood staining his thighs and the hardwood beneath him.

Khabib fixed his clothing with clinical detachment, then crouched beside Conor, the phone still recording.

"Now you know," he said softly. "Now you understand what you did to him."

Conor couldn't look at him, his face hidden in the crook of his arm. "You're a monster," he whispered.

"No," Khabib replied, his voice steady. "I am what you made me."

He stood, tucking the phone into his pocket. "Get dressed," he ordered. "You're leaving now."

Conor didn't move, either unable or unwilling to comply.

Khabib nudged him with his foot. "I said get dressed. Unless you want me to drag you naked through the streets."

Slowly, painfully, Conor began to pull his clothes back on, wincing with each movement. Blood immediately soaked through the seat of his pants, but he made no comment, his earlier bravado completely extinguished.

When he was dressed, Khabib grabbed him by the collar, forcing him to meet his gaze.

"The videos," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "All of them. Delete them now."

Conor nodded weakly, reaching for his phone. Khabib handed it to him, watching closely as Conor navigated to his photo gallery with trembling fingers. One by one, he deleted the videos of Islam—three in total, each more degrading than the other.

"It's done," Conor mumbled, his voice barely audible as he handed the phone back to Khabib.

Khabib checked the gallery, scrolling through to ensure all videos were truly deleted. He then opened Conor's cloud storage, methodically searching for any backups. Finding none, he pocketed the phone and grabbed Conor by the collar.

"We're not finished," Khabib said, his voice low and dangerous. "There's someone you need to see."

Terror flashed across Conor's face. "No. Please. I've done what you asked. Let me go."

Khabib's grip tightened, twisting the fabric until it cut into Conor's throat. "This is not negotiable."

He dragged Conor toward the door, ignoring his feeble attempts to resist. The Irishman's legs buckled with each step, fresh blood seeping through his pants. His face was ashen, streaked with tears and sweat, all traces of his usual arrogance obliterated.

"Where are you taking me?" Conor gasped as Khabib pulled him down the hallway.

"To face what you've done," Khabib replied simply.

Understanding dawned in Conor's eyes. "No," he whispered, renewing his struggles. "Not him. Please, not him."

Khabib ignored his pleas, dragging him toward Islam's actual bedroom. He paused outside the door, his hand on the knob.

"You will look him in the eye," Khabib said, his voice cold as Dagestani winter. "You will acknowledge what you did. You will apologize. And you will mean it."

"He doesn't want to see me," Conor protested weakly. "You know he doesn't."

"This isn't about what he wants," Khabib replied. "It's about what he needs."

Without further warning, Khabib pushed the door open and shoved Conor inside.

Islam was sitting up in bed, his back against the headboard, a book open in his lap. At the sound of the door, he looked up, his face immediately draining of color when he saw Conor. The book slipped from his fingers, thudding dully against the blanket.

"What—" Islam's voice failed him, his eyes wide with terror as they darted between Conor and Khabib. "What is he doing here?"

Khabib kept a firm grip on Conor's collar, forcing him to remain upright despite his trembling legs. "He has something to say to you."

Islam shrank back against the headboard, his breathing quickening. "I don't want to hear anything from him. Get him out of here!"

"Isu," Khabib's voice softened slightly. "Trust me. Please."

Something in Khabib's tone made Islam pause. He looked more closely at Conor, taking in his tear-stained face, the way he could barely stand, the dark stain spreading at the seat of his pants. Understanding dawned in his eyes.

"What did you do?" he whispered.

"What needed to be done," Khabib replied, his voice betraying no emotion. "Now he understands."

Islam's gaze moved back to Conor, who couldn't meet his eyes, staring instead at the floor. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken horrors.

"Look at him," Khabib ordered, giving Conor a rough shake. "Look at what you did to him."

Slowly, painfully, Conor raised his head. His eyes, bloodshot and hollow, finally met Islam's. Whatever Islam saw in those eyes made him flinch.

"Tell him," Khabib commanded. "Tell him what you are."

Conor swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly in his throat. "I'm... I'm a rapist," he whispered, the words barely audible.

Islam's breath caught. His hands clenched the blanket so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Louder," Khabib demanded.

"I'm a rapist," Conor repeated, his voice cracking. A fresh tear spilled down his cheek. "I hurt you. I... violated you."

Islam said nothing, his face a mask of conflicting emotions.

"Tell him you're sorry," Khabib continued, his voice relentless. "Tell him you regret what you did."

"I'm sorry," Conor said, the words seemingly wrenched from deep within him. "I'm so sorry for what I did to you. For... for hurting you. For recording it. For everything."

Islam's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you sorry because you regret it, or because you got caught? Because Khabib made you feel what I felt?"

Conor flinched at the direct question. "I... I don't know," he admitted, his voice small. "I didn't understand before. What it was like. How it felt."

"And now you do," Islam said quietly.

Conor nodded, more tears spilling down his cheeks. "Now I do."

An unexpected calm seemed to settle over Islam. He studied Conor's face for a long moment, as if searching for something. Whatever he found—or didn't find—made him sigh softly.

"I want to hate you," he said finally. "I should hate you. But right now, looking at you..." He shook his head slowly. "I just feel sorry for you."

Conor's head snapped up, genuine surprise flashing across his tear-stained face.

"Not because of what Khabib did to you," Islam clarified, his voice steady. "You deserved that. But because you're so broken inside that you could do what you did to me and feel nothing. That's a sickness no punishment can cure."

The words seemed to hit Conor harder than any physical blow. He sagged in Khabib's grip, a sob escaping him.

"The videos," Islam said, turning his attention to Khabib. "Are they gone?"

Khabib nodded. "All of them. Deleted permanently."

Relief washed over Islam's face, though the tension didn't fully leave his body. "And now what? What happens to him?"

"That's for you to decide," Khabib said, his grip on Conor never loosening.

Islam considered this for a long moment, his eyes never leaving Conor's face. The room was silent except for Conor's ragged breathing.

"I want him to live with it," Islam finally said. "With the memory. With the knowledge. With the shame." His voice hardened slightly. "Just like I have to."

Khabib nodded, understanding the justice in this sentence. "And if he ever comes near you again? If he ever speaks of this to anyone?"

"Then you finish what you started today," Islam replied, his eyes meeting Khabib's. Something passed between them—an understanding, a pact.

Conor trembled visibly at these words.

"Look at me," Islam commanded suddenly, his voice stronger than it had been in days. "Conor. Look at me."

Conor raised his head, his eyes meeting Islam's reluctantly.

"I am not broken," Islam said, each word deliberate and clear. "What you did to me was monstrous. It hurt me. It will always be part of me. But it does not define me." He leaned forward slightly. "Remember that when you're lying awake at night, feeling what I felt. I survived you. I'm healing. Can you say the same?"

The question hung in the air between them, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable. Conor's face crumpled, whatever remained of his spirit seeming to collapse in on itself.

"Get him out of here," Islam said to Khabib, suddenly weary. "I don't want to see his face again."

Khabib nodded, tightening his grip on Conor's collar. "It's done," he said simply. "He won't bother you again."

As Khabib dragged Conor from the room, Islam called out one last time. "Khabib."

Khabib paused in the doorway, looking back at his friend.

"Thank you," Islam said softly. "For understanding what I needed. Even when I didn't."

Something passed between them then—an acknowledgment of the darkness they had both touched today, of the lines they had crossed together. Khabib nodded once, then pulled Conor from the room, closing the door behind them.

Left alone, Islam sank back against the pillows, exhaustion washing over him. The confrontation had drained what little energy he had, but beneath the fatigue, he felt something he hadn't expected—a flicker of peace. Not healing, not yet. But perhaps the beginning of it.

Outside, Khabib marched Conor through the house and out the front door. The afternoon sun was harsh after the dimness inside, making both men squint.

"If you ever speak of this," Khabib said, his voice deadly quiet as he pushed Conor toward the street, "if you ever come near Islam again, if you even say his name—I will end you. Do you understand?"

Conor nodded mutely, his eyes vacant, haunted.

"Go," Khabib said, releasing him with a small shove. "And remember what happens to men who prey on the innocent."

Conor stumbled away, his gait uneven, painful. He didn't look back as he made his slow way down the street, a broken figure in the bright afternoon light.

Khabib watched until he disappeared around the corner, then turned back to the house. To Islam. To the long road of healing that lay ahead for both of them.

They had touched darkness today. Had become something they never thought possible. But they had survived. And sometimes, Khabib reflected as he closed the door behind him, survival was victory enough.

THE END.

[ufclover]

Islam and khabib are abducted. P.S the timeline is all messed up. I do not mean to disrespect any religion or people this is pure fiction!!!!

Warning: MATURE 18+ rape/non-con

Dont like dont read

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In the festering underbelly of Las Vegas, far from the garish lights of the strip and the ceaseless clamor of casinos, Islam Makhachev and Khabib Nurmagomedov found themselves trapped in a grimy, foreboding alley. The air was thick with the putrid stench of rotting garbage and the endless hum of a city that never truly slept. Khabib, his face a roadmap of hard-won battles, still bore the fresh scars of his brutal clash with Conor McGregor. His victorious fight had sent shockwaves through the mixed martial arts world, but those same ripples had stirred something sinister and vengeful. Islam, barely 20, had always looked up to Khabib with an almost worshipful reverence, but now, in this unfamiliar land, his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty.

The alley was bathed in a sickly, dim light, the city's roar reduced to a distant murmur. They had just left the blinding lights and deafening cheers of the arena, a world away from their harsh, rugged homeland of Dagestan. The echo of their footsteps on the cracked, filthy pavement was suddenly drowned out by the heavy, menacing thud of boots. A pack of men, draped in the emerald green of Ireland, emerged from the shadows like a malevolent apparition. Their faces were twisted masks of malice and hatred, mouths snarling with a hunger for violence. Conor's fans, or so they claimed, but they were more akin to a rabid pack of wolves, baying for blood.

"Well, if it isn't the Russian filth," one of them spat, his breath fogging in the frigid night air. "You think you can come here and disrespect our boy Conor?"

Khabib stepped in front of Islam, a primal instinct to protect his childhood friend surging within him. "Leave us," he growled, his broken English laced with a deadly warning. "We want no trouble."

The men laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed ominously in the narrow alley. "Too late for that, mate," another sneered, his eyes glinting with cruel intent. "You hurt Conor, now we're going to hurt you. And what better way to do that than by hurting your little buddy here?" He jerked his chin towards Islam, who stood tense and coiled, despite the icy fear coursing through his veins.

Before Khabib could react, the men swarmed them, their movements swift and brutal. A filthy bag was thrown over Islam's head, muffling his desperate cries, and Khabib was restrained, the cold, unyielding barrel of a gun pressed against his temple. He was forced to listen as the men outlined their vile, twisted plan, his blood running cold as their words slithered into his ears like venom.

They were dragged to a nearby abandoned warehouse, the sound of their struggle echoing ominously in the vast, desolate space. Khabib was thrown to the ground, Islam pushed down beside him. The men circled them, their faces a blur of hate and violence, eyes gleaming with a sickening hunger.

"Here's what's going to happen," one of them said, crouching down to look Khabib in the eye. "You're going to do exactly what we say, or we're going to put a bullet in your little buddy's head. Understand?"

Khabib's breath hitched, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. He understood their meaning, their broken English clear enough. He nodded, his eyes never leaving Islam's terrified face.

The man smiled cruelly, a grotesque parody of joy. "Good. Because you're going to fuck him, or we will. And then we'll kill him. Your choice."

Khabib's stomach churned, bile rising in his throat like a toxic tide. He looked at Islam, his childhood friend, his best friend. He had spent his life protecting him, guiding him, and now... He closed his eyes, a shudder wracking his frame as the weight of their situation threatened to crush him.

"Tick tock, Khabib," the man taunted, his voice a mocking singsong. "We ain't got all night."

Khabib opened his eyes, his gaze meeting Islam's. They sat in silence for a moment, both dreading what was to come. Khabib's mind raced, searching desperately for a way out, but there was none. He could not let these men hurt Islam, could not let them carry out their threat. He took a deep breath, his decision made, a grim resolve settling over him like a shroud.

"Islam," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, a ragged, broken sound. "I... I am sorry. I must... I must do this."

Islam's eyes widened, understanding and fear warring in their depths. He shook his head, a silent, desperate plea, but Khabib could only look away, shame and guilt washing over him like a tidal wave.

The men laughed, their voices echoing in the cavernous space like the howls of demons. "Good boy," one of them sneered. "Now get on with it."

Khabib reached out, his hand trembling as he touched Islam's face. He could feel his friend's fear, could see the tears welling in his eyes like blood from a wound. He leaned in, his forehead pressing against Islam's, his breath hitching as he tried to hold back his own tears, a storm of anguish threatening to consume him.

"Islam," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Forgive me. Forgive me, my friend. Allah, forgive me for my sins."

Islam shook his head vigorously, his voice trembling. "Khabib, no. You can't do this. There has to be another way."

Khabib looked into Islam's eyes, his own filled with despair. "I wish there were, Islam. But they will kill you. I cannot let that happen."

Islam's breath hitched, his body trembling. "But Khabib, this... this is wrong. We can't do this."

Khabib nodded, his voice a ragged whisper. "I know, Islam. I know. But we have no choice. I will make this right, I promise you. I will find a way to make this right."

Islam looked at Khabib, his eyes filled with tears. "How can this ever be right, Khabib? How can we ever come back from this?"

Khabib shook his head, a tear sliding down his cheek. "I do not know, Islam. But I will find a way. I promise you, I will find a way."

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he must do. His hands moved to Islam's clothes, slowly, carefully, as if by taking his time he could somehow make this right. Islam's breath hitched, his body tensing as Khabib's hands moved over him, trembling and uncertain.

"Khabib," Islam whispered, his voice shaking. "Please, don't do this."

Khabib paused, his hands stilling. He looked into Islam's eyes, his own filled with pain. "Islam, I must. I must do this to save you. I will not let them hurt you, Islam. I will not let them take you from me."

Islam's breath hitched, a sob escaping him. "Khabib... I'm scared."

Khabib nodded, his voice a gentle, soothing murmur. "I know, Islam. I know. But I am here with you. I will not leave you. I will not let them hurt you."

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Islam's forehead, his lips lingering as he whispered another plea for forgiveness. He could taste the salt of Islam's tears, could feel the shudder that wracked his frame like an earthquake.

Slowly, carefully, Khabib moved down, his hands never leaving Islam's body. He could feel the tremble of his muscles, the tension that gripped him like a vice. He pressed a kiss to his collarbone, his chest, his stomach, each one a whispered apology, a desperate plea for understanding.

When he finally reached Islam's waist, he paused, his hands shaking. He looked up, his eyes meeting Islam's. What he saw there nearly broke him - fear, yes, but also understanding, acceptance. Islam nodded, a slight, barely perceptible movement, but it was enough.

Khabib squeezed his eyes shut, a tear slicing down his cheek like a razor as he hesitated, painstakingly beginning to undo Islam's pants. He could sense Islam's breath hitch sharply, feel the desperate tremble in his hands as they clutched at Khabib's shoulders, like a man drowning and grasping for a lifeline. He leaned in, pressing a fervent kiss to Islam's hip, his breath searing against his skin, a silent, burning vow that he would set things right, no matter what it demanded.

"Islam," he whispered, his voice a ragged, broken sound. "I will make this right. I promise you, I will make this right."

Islam shook his head, his voice a trembling whisper. "Khabib, you can't promise that. You can't know that."

Khabib looked into Islam's eyes, his own filled with determination. "I can, Islam. I will. I will find a way to make this right. I will find a way to make them pay for what they have done to us."

He moved with deliberate slowness, every touch charged with a whispered, intense apology. He could feel Islam's body responding, the hitch in his breath, the shiver rippling through his muscles. Khabib took his time, his hands and mouth traversing Islam's body with careful precision, each touch, each kiss laden with all the love and regret he could pour into them.

When he finally poised himself to enter, he paused, locking eyes with Islam. He saw the fear, the uncertainty, but also the flicker of trust. He leaned in, pressing an earnest kiss to Islam's forehead as he slowly, meticulously pushed inside.

Islam's breath hitched, his body tensing like a coiled spring, and he let out a sharp yell of pain. Khabib immediately halted, his eyes filled with concern and apology. "Islam, I am sorry. I am so sorry."

Islam's breath came in quick, sharp gasps, his body trembling. Khabib leaned in, pressing gentle kisses to Islam's face, his voice a relentless stream of passionate apologies and desperate pleas for forgiveness. "I am sorry, Islam. I am so sorry. I will go slow, I promise. I will be gentle."

He moved slowly, his body trembling with the strain of restraint, of making this right. He whispered soothing words into Islam's ear, his voice a constant stream of reassurance and love. "I am here, Islam. I am with you. I will not leave you. I will not let them hurt you."

When it was over, he collapsed beside Islam, drawing him fiercely into his embrace. He felt Islam's tears, scorching and wet against his chest, felt the convulsive shudder of his body as he finally let go. Khabib held him tightly, his own tears pouring down like a relentless storm as he begged for forgiveness—from Islam, from Allah, from the very depths of himself.

They lay there for a long time, their bodies entwined, their tears mingling. The men had gone, their vile presence no longer needed, their threat hanging heavy in the air like a poisonous cloud. Khabib held Islam tight, his hand stroking his hair, his voice a constant stream of whispered apologies.

As Islam's sobs finally began to subside, Khabib pulled back, his eyes meeting his friend's. He could see the pain there, the betrayal, but also the understanding, the forgiveness. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Islam's forehead, his hand cupping his cheek, a silent vow that he would never let anything like this happen again.

"Islam," he whispered, his voice breaking. "My friend. Forgive me. Please, forgive me."

And Islam, his eyes filled with tears, nodded, his hand reaching up to cover Khabib's. They stayed like that, their foreheads pressed together, their tears mingling, their bond unbroken. They would survive this, Khabib vowed. They would survive, and they would rise, stronger and more united than ever before. For they were childhood friends, bound by blood and spirit, and nothing, not even this, could tear them apart. They would have their vengeance, and they would have their justice. They would turn their pain into power, and they would never, ever be victims again.

After dreadful 30 minutes khabib got islam up.

They stumbled back to their bleak, anonymous hotel room in the outer burbs, the taxi driver making no comment about the way Islam hunched into himself and Khabib hovered, pained and overbearing, a sheepdog whose flock had been mortally wounded. Khabib paid in crumpled bills, his hands shaking so hard the coins scattered to the floor, and all he could do was stare at them—tiny, useless bits of metal, unfit for anything except being lost.

In the dim, flickering light of their room, Islam collapsed onto the edge of the bed. For a long moment, Khabib watched him, not knowing what to do with his hands, with his own broken voice. He found a wet towel and gently dabbed at Islam’s face to cool him off. Islam didn't protest, just closed his eyes. When Khabib moved to undress him, to check the damage, Islam tensed, his lips parting as if to speak, but nothing came out. Only the faint, moist sound of breath.

When the pants came away, a dark, soaked patch at the back made Khabib freeze. He pulled the waistband lower, heart stuttering, and saw the new blood—thick, bright. Islam's bottom was torn, swelling around the edges, the blood pulsing with each quick beat of his heart.

Khabib’s first instinct was to panic, to holler, to pace—but then he remembered: it had to be fixed, not feared. He breathed, slow and deep, and retrieved the first aid kit from his duffel. “Lie on your side, yes? I have you. I fix it,” he murmured, the words coming out, oddly, in Russian. Islam, still, turned obediently, cheek pressed against the threadbare pillow.

He cleaned around the wound with trembling gentleness, apologizing each time Islam sucked in a breath or whimpered. The worst part was inside, a tearing that would need time more than anything else. Khabib wanted to cry. Instead, he tucked a blanket over Islam and sat on the floor beside the bed, knees pulled up to his chest.

They didn't sleep. Not really. Islam drifted in and out, feverish and shuddering, sometimes muttering words Khabib couldn't make out, sometimes just clawing at the sheets. At dawn, Islam began to sob in his sleep, a thin, reedy sound that made Khabib’s chest ache. He climbed into bed behind him, spooned his battered body, held him until the sobbing stopped.

On the third night, Islam woke screaming, his hands thrown up to ward off invisible blows. Khabib was there in an instant, pulling him upright, cradling his head to his shoulder. Islam fought him, for a moment, then collapsed against him, shivering, the nightmare sweat soaking through both their shirts.

“Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay, you are safe,” Khabib whispered, rocking him like a child. Islam held on with surprising strength, his nails digging half-moons into Khabib’s back.

In the morning, Islam barely spoke. He ate only a little, drank water with small, careful sips. Khabib busied himself with small things: checking Google for signs of peritonitis, making strong black tea. He kept a respectful distance, knowing that Islam needed space, but the ace of it gnawed at him. He wanted to touch, to comfort. But each time he reached out, Islam winced, flinched, or retreated into himself. The first time, Khabib felt a sharp, stinging shame, as if he’d struck him. He gathered his things and left the room for a while, walking the empty corridors of the hotel, listening to his own footsteps echo.

He went to a little halal grocery and bought lamb for stew, hoping that the taste of home might bring Islam back. He cooked it slowly, the familiar scents winding through their room. When he brought a bowl to Islam, the man looked up with hollow eyes, but took it, and ate—slowly, but with more appetite than before.

They spent the next day in silence, Khabib reading news and fight blogs, Islam lying on his stomach, scrolling through his phone. The only sound was the hum of the radiator and the clicking of keys.

A week passed before Islam said, “I remember everything,” his voice flat, exhausted. “Every word. Every second.”

Khabib set his phone aside. “I am sorry. I—”

“They were going to kill me,” Islam interrupted, his jaw flexing. “You saved my life.” He looked at Khabib, finally. “I know that. But I also...” He trailed off, a helpless gesture.

Khabib nodded, feeling the guilt and gratitude churn together. “I wish I could make you forget.”

Islam shook his head. “No. I will not forget, but I will survive. That is what matters.” He exhaled, slow and controlled. “I just... I need time.”

Khabib nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.

That night, as Islam limped to the bathroom, he passed Khabib and paused. For a moment, they were two boys again, in the gym, exhausted after rounds, sharing a look, a bond. Islam reached out, his hand shaking, and put it on Khabib’s shoulder. Held it there, just long enough.

“I trust you,” Islam said.

And Khabib, for the first time since the alley, believed it. He put his hand over Islam’s and squeezed. “You are my brother. Nothing changes that.”

In the morning, they left the hotel for a walk. The sky was pale and washed out and the city rang with early traffic, life moving on. As they strode side by side, Khabib felt the old rhythm return, found himself matching Islam’s step. When a group of men passed them on the sidewalk, Khabib tensed—ready to defend, to fight, to do whatever it took. But the men only glanced at them and moved on, and Islam smiled quietly, a little crooked, but real.

The wound would heal. The scar would remain. But so would they, shoulder to shoulder, marching forward into the uncertain morning.

It was only two days later at the gym that Khabib realized how deep the wound ran. Islam was stubborn—insisted on returning to training, assured Khabib he could handle it—but every takedown, every sprawl, he moved like a marionette with half its strings cut. He’d wince at sudden movements, take long, searching breaths between drills, and when Khabib tried to ease up on him, Islam would scowl and double down, refusing to give ground.

Their teammates noticed. It was impossible not to. At first, they chalked it up to bad weight cut or a rough roll the week before. But on the fourth day, after a round of no-gi sparring, Zubaira clapped Islam on the back—too hard, in the usual way—and Islam crumpled, just for a second, his eyes going wide. Everyone saw.

“Damn, Islam!” Zubaira hooted, oblivious. “Why you moving like babushka? Somebody fuck you in the ass?”

The words were a joke, a gym-rough ribbing they’d all heard a thousand times, but Islam froze, and the whole mat went silent. Khabib saw the way his friend’s mouth pinched, how his hands balled into fists. The look on Islam’s face was a raw, wild thing—a trapped animal.

Khabib didn’t hear what anyone said next. Instinct took over. He grabbed Islam’s wrist, said, “He’s cut weight too fast,” and hustled him out of the cage, through the locker room, out into the parking lot, where the sun was sharp and cold and the air bit through their sweat.

In the car, Islam said nothing, only clenched the seatbelt and stared out the window. Khabib drove to their apartment and unlocked the door, ushered Islam inside, and only then did Islam finally speak. “I can’t sit,” he said, voice hollow. “It still hurts.”

Khabib felt an ache crack open in his chest. “You must rest,” he said. “You damage more if you keep—”

Islam cut him off, shaking his head. “No doctors. No one else. If I see doctor, it is report. They will ask, they will know. I cannot—” He stopped, fists pressed to his forehead.

“Okay, okay,” Khabib said, “no doctors.” He made tea, the sweet, tannic kind from home, poured sugar until it nearly crystallized on the bottom. He found ointment in their duffel. He knelt beside the couch where Islam lay on his side, undid the drawstring of his sweatpants, and checked the raw, angry wound. It was less red now, but puffy. Khabib worked silently, gently, applying the ointment. Islam gritted his teeth, but did not cry out.

They didn’t train the next day, or the one after that. Islam slept most of the time, sometimes shivering even though the radiator rattled and the room was hot as a sauna. Khabib lay on the other side of the bed, watching over him. Sometimes, in the deepest part of the night, Islam would jolt awake, gasping like a man drowning. Khabib would hold him, arms banded tight around his chest, and murmur nothing words until the tremors passed.

The first time Islam reached for his hand in the dark, Khabib let him, entwining their fingers in the sweaty, desperate way of survivors. He didn’t speak of it the next morning, and neither did Islam, but that night, and every night after, they fell asleep holding hands.

A month passed. The bruises faded, the wound closed. Islam still didn’t smile much. When they went to the gym, he kept his head down, trained hard, gave nothing away. But Khabib saw how he lingered at the edges of the group, how he flinched at sudden noises, how his hunch had not quite left him.

One day after practice, the coach called them into his office. “You are both strong,” he said. “But Islam, your focus is gone. Your heart is somewhere else.”

Islam said nothing.

Coach looked at Khabib, then back at Islam. “You are brothers. If you do not fight for each other, you fight for nothing.”

Islam closed his eyes, then nodded. When they left the office, Khabib put his arm around Islam’s shoulders, and this time, Islam didn’t shrink away.

That night, after sparring, Khabib brought home lamb stew, and they ate in silence. After the meal, Islam cleaned the bowls and came to sit beside Khabib on the worn-out futon. They watched an old fight on YouTube, a wild brawl from the regional days, and for the first time since the warehouse, Islam laughed—a short, bitter bark, but a laugh all the same.

“Why are you laughing?” Khabib asked, his mouth twitching toward a smile.

“Because,” Islam said, reaching for the remote, “that guy fought like he had nothing left to lose.”

Khabib nodded, understanding. He slid closer, pressed his shoulder to Islam’s. “We fight together,” he said, and this time, it wasn’t just words.

When they went to bed, Islam curled up against Khabib, careful at first, but then looser, easier, as if muscle memory remembered a time before the alley, before the warehouse, before the world had changed. Khabib stroked his hair, and Islam dropped off to sleep, breathing deep and even.

And that night, there were no nightmares.

The next morning, when they woke, Islam rolled over and pressed his forehead to Khabib’s chest. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Khabib didn’t say “for what,” because he knew exactly.

They got up, brewed strong tea, and got ready for another day. The city was gray, the gym was cold, but inside, things felt a fraction lighter. The world might never be the same, but they could face it—together, always, side by side.