Not Yet

Cancer Jiles.

Your first match after the Almasy disgrace. After squandering a golden ticket and opportunity. After we took the only worthwhile Bandits, claimed your abandoned carrier, and renamed it the SFS Svet Fanyi.

Welcome back.

I feel no anger over Lindsay’s booking. Fear is irrelevant to duty. I welcome any opportunity to hurt an enemy of The Red Army.

But what does this match truly signify?

The answer was waiting for me.

I just didn’t see it yet…

—

Ivan’s Moscow apartment can’t contain its history. It looms in doorways and lingers like cigarette smoke. The place is bunker-quiet. We sit at the kitchen table with a vodka bottle between us and two waiting tumblers. Behind Ivan, a black and white photo of Fanya watches us, youthful with intense, Stanislavian eyes. She is one of the few visible ghosts in the dwelling.

Ivan’s powerful hands rest interlaced on the table. He wears a simple plain black shirt. No iconography. No suspenders. He’s not trying to be a monument. Instead, it’s the plain uniform of a man tired of the spectacle.

But I know him.

He’s nervous.

If I were a different man, I’d say it was because of hope. But that’s for dreamers and Westerners. Russians don’t hope. We brace for the worst. And my older brother was bracing.

His eyes fix on the laptop between us. The screen's glow carves deeper shadows into his face. His jaw clenches. A tell only I recognize after decades of shared darkness.

The ceremony unfolds with PRIME’s typical polish: a temple built on spite and money. Nick Stuart speaks corporate platitudes. Richard Parker adds rehearsed irreverence. Angelica Brooks smiles a sycophant’s smile.

The hosts cycle through categories. Names. Applause. A parade of people who pretend this business is sport until the numbers don’t go their way, and then it becomes politics and friendships and favors. But I watch Ivan, not the screen. That’s always been my role, despite what others think. Not to speak or propagandize, but to observe. To read fracture lines.

Yet tonight is different. Tonight, the company is handing out something different.

Permanence.

Ivan’s fingers shift slightly, betraying discomfort in his own skin. His name appears: Heel of the Year. Nick announces with rehearsed gravity. Graphics flash. Montages play. Ivan doesn’t react. Not because it isn’t an honor. Ivan has lived inside that hate, breathed it like air. “Heel” is just a label that allows the crowd to feel justified as they boo.

I see the tiniest curl at the corner of his mouth, then it dies.

“They still fear me,” he says quietly in our mother tongue, like reciting a fact to keep himself steady.

“Yes,” I tell him.

He grunts, eyes fixed on the screen. The ceremony drones on. For us, this world might as well be the moon. As minutes pass, he tightens inwardly. A man who battles disappointment with stoicism.

This is what makes it dangerous. Ivan never wants openly. Wanting is exposure. Weakness. It is a thing that can be taken.

And yet, I can see it.

I have seen it for years. In his midnight monologues about legacy, in his jaw clenching when foreigners reduce the Soviet Union to a dead animal behind glass, in the dry click in his knee when he steps onto the apron.

Ivan is losing a war against erasure.

When Nick intones “final honor” half a world away, Ivan feigns indifference. He fails.

Then comes the announcement.

PRIME Hall of Fame.

Ivan Stanislav.

For an instant, the apartment feels weightless. Ivan exhales. A burden set down. His eyes soften. Even a company with every reason to hate him cannot deny his achievement. This recognition will outlast titles or staged applause.

I feel pride and grief simultaneously. The two people he'd want here are beyond our reach. The moment demands Ivan be a man, not a weapon or symbol, and he's not certain he remembers how.

I reach for the bottle. Two glasses. Two pours. Vodka catches the light like winter ice. I set one glass near Ivan’s hand and hold the other. For once, I’m at a loss for words, but I recover.

“For you,” I say. “For what you’ve earned. For what will outlive them.”

Ivan stares at his glass as if it might shatter. His hand hovers, then retreats. When he meets my eyes, I see the real battle. Not against PRIME, but against himself.

“Not yet,” he says.

I nod once. I don’t ask why. I know. It’s fear. Fear that if he allows joy to exist openly, it might be sullied. Fear that the world will punish him for wanting something for himself. I nod once, immediately, to give him space and place the glass down.

But Cancer, those words echoed in my mind all night.

NOT YET.

Then PRIME gave me you, and I understood what I had to do.

—

I don’t write for applause, Cancer. I write to construct history. To make it permanent. Ivan doesn’t need his ego stroked or his name chanted. He needs permission. To accept what he earns without flinching or waiting for it to be stolen. When the induction became official, I acted. I began building a digital monument and a shield of certainty.

But there was more. I filed the requisition for a ceremony aboard the SFS Svet Fanyi, your vessel bearing his mother’s name. Two tumblers waiting. Vodka finally consumed. An official state celebration where my brother could accept what took a lifetime to earn.

That was the plan.

Other plans were already in motion.

—

My apartment is not like Ivan’s.

Concrete. Glass. Steel. It’s a government building with a bed. The only warmth comes from Gema Caballero, cross-legged on my couch, livestreaming in rapid Spanish about Moscow's cold and how Russians stare at her like a rare bird. Near the window sits Ivan’s vodka bottle with the two tumblers. Still untouched since Ivan's induction.

Gema glances up at me and says softly, just to the room, “My Alejandro.” The words sound like contraband. Something I’m not supposed to possess.

Three measured knocks interrupt my thoughts. Maksim Stepanov stands in the doorway, coat crisp, hair perfect, posture straight. Oligarch money made flesh. His mouth smiles while his eyes calculate. I want to make him beg for something. Anything.

“Alexei Gregorovich,” he says with enough formality to pass.

“What?” I reply without inviting him past the threshold of my door.

His gaze flicks past me, trying to measure my apartment in a glance. “May I,” he begins.

“No,” I say before he can finish.

The corridor light catches the smallest shift in his expression. Not anger. Surprise. I revel in it.

“This will only take a moment,” he replies smoothly.

“Good. Then you won’t suffer standing in the hallway. What is it?” I tell him.

He adjusts a folder under his arm, “I was asked to deliver this to you. Personally.” There’s a flash of annoyance as he must hand me the folder through the doorway, like some servant. I take it and leave the gap between us.

Behind me, Gema has paused her stream. Her warmth radiates against my back as I open the folder and glance through the documents.

SUBJECT: FOREIGN HONORS. STANISLAV. HALL OF FAME DISPOSITION: NO PUBLIC ACKNOWLEDGEMENT No public statement. No publication. No broadcast. No endorsement. The Russian Federation will not recognize an award from an evil corporation such as PRIME.

I flip the page to the next document. My brow furrows.

SUBJECT: CEREMONY REQUEST. SFS SVET FANYI DISPOSITION: DENIED SIGNED: OFFICE OF KAPITAN MOROZOVA SFS Svet Fanyi is a Naval Vessel. Not a sideshow.

DENIED.

Then, Stepanov unfurls another sheet and places it atop the stack in my hands. “Oh, I nearly forgot this one.” He explains. “You have been booked in PRIME against Cancer Jiles, Mr. Ruslan. Time to show us why you were a World Champion.”

He waits for me to crack. But I don’t. I glare at him. He is an inch taller than me, and I hate him for it. “This could have been a memo. You came here because you wanted to see it…”

Maksim’s smile stays polite. His eyes admit nothing. “I came because I was asked.”

"Then leave," I tell him. "And do not knock on my door again."

Irritation flashes in him like a matchstrike. Then it vanishes, smothered by training and oligarch breeding. He takes one step back, and I think he might leave without another word.

He does not.

He leans in slightly, just enough that his voice drops to a whisper. "Please give Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav my congratulations. Privately, of course."

He glides down the hall. I close my door. The lock clicks and I am left with the cold documents and my Cuban sunrise.

She stands before I turn around, her laptop closed on the table. The room is suddenly quieter, the way it gets when her laughter ceases. She stands there, dressed in a bright loose top the color of ripe fruit. A small chain around her wrist catches the light. It seems impossible that she could be alive in a room that is so dead.

She crosses without permission while I look at the papers. She doesn’t need permission to care.

“Who was that man?” she asks. Not angry. Curious.

“Poison,” I say, and that is the closest I can get to honesty without spiraling into a lecture.

She touches my forearm, then my chest, then the side of my neck. Unlike me, she takes inventory by touch. She stares at the documents, but she cannot read the Cyrillic. “Bad news, my Alejandro?”

I don't tell her the contents. That Moscow denies Ivan his recognition. That this Kapitan Morozova has shut down the ceremony on the Svet Fanyi. That I've been handed a match with a professional parasite.

When I remain silent, she speaks for me softly, quietly, the Gema few see. “They say no,” she says. “To everything.”

I nod once. “They deny Ivan his celebration on all fronts.”

She rolls her eyes and squeezes my arm. “I swear, Russians invented the word ‘nee-yet,’” she says with a smirk she can’t hide. Cuba has its own institutions, its own discipline. But the Russian institutions are colder.

“But he won,” she says. “They said his name. They put him in their Hall of Fame. How can they stop him from being happy?”

I say nothing, and the light dims from her face.

“That is cruel,” she says.

She regards the door. Where Maksim stood. I can already tell she doesn’t like him. “Why didn’t Arina bring this news,” she says. “Is she on vacation too?”

The name sits in the room like someone dropped a plate. My answer is quiet. “She left.”

Something changes in her face. “I’m sorry.” She is quiet for a moment. “Did she say why?”

“She wanted to stand without us.”

She frowns, her head tilting slightly. “And you believe this?”

I don’t answer. It doesn’t matter what I believe. The result is the same. Ivan’s circle is shrinking and I cannot stop it. First Arina. Then Rose. And the sad truth is I’m not sure I’m angry.

Gema doesn’t press. She stands there, her hand still on my forearm, waiting. I pick up the documents again. The third page sits on top now. The one Maksim handed me last. Like it was nothing.

“They’ve booked me in a match,” I say, almost to myself. “Against Cancer Jiles.”

Gema tilts her head. “A match?”

“In PRIME. In the ring.”

“This is punishment?” Her voice is careful.

“PRIME thinks so,” I say.

She opens her laptop again, taps a few keys, then turns it toward me. Jiles. The pucker. The sunglasses.

“Is this him?” she asks. “With the… the…” She puckers her lips in exaggerated mimicry, then laughs. “He makes this face on purpose?”

I don’t laugh.

She sets the laptop down and comes back into my space, as if distance is a problem she can solve with her hands.

If I were twenty years younger, this would be simpler. But I’m no Ivan Stanislav. He wins with power. I’ll have to win with certainty, and the willingness to do what others won’t.

“Alejandro,” she says softly. “Why did you want to do these things for Ivan?”

“To honor him,” I say, looking at her. “To give him a moment that couldn’t be denied.”

She stares at me and processes this. She’s a wise woman. Her hand slides from my arm and holds my hand. “I don’t think the moment is gone.”

I frown. “Gema…”

“Listen to me,” she says, and there’s a firmness in her voice I don’t often hear. Not harsh. Certain. “You wanted to give Ivan something. A moment. A recognition. Something that said: you matter, and I see you. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“And the State said no. The Captain said no. PRIME laughs at you. So you think you have nothing left to give him.”

I don’t answer. She’s right.

She steps closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Something bright and floral that doesn’t belong in Moscow winters. “But Alejandro, you still have yourself. You still have this match. You still have the ability to stand in that ring and win for him. He will be at ringside. We both know that.”

“It won’t matter,” I say. I hate how defeated I am. “The ceremony on the ship…”

“Forget the ship,” she says, her eyes flash. Not anger. Passion. “Forget Moscow. Forget all of them.”

I stare at her. I can't understand why I don't immediately arrest her. I should. But I don't.

“You don’t need their permission to care,” she says, squeezing my hand. “You don’t need a captain’s signature or government memo to make something matter. You need only to decide it matters, and then act.”

I abhor her refreshing foolishness. “That’s not how…”

“That’s exactly how,” she interrupts. She touches my face, her palm warm against my cheek. “Alejandro, I grew up in a place where the State told us what to think, what to say, what to celebrate. And do you know what we learned?”

I don’t answer.

“We learned that meaning doesn’t come from permission. It comes from love. From choosing to honor someone even when no one is watching. Even when no one approves.” Her voice softens. “Especially then.”

She has the same Cuban light Riggs carries. Stubborn. Irreverent. Impossible to extinguish. And I hate how much I need it.

“They can deny you a ship,” she continues. “They can deny you a headline. But they cannot stop you from stepping into that ring and making it mean something. That is yours, Alejandro. That is your ceremony.”

She lets her hand fall from my face but doesn’t step back.

“You will fight Cancer Jiles. And when you win, and you will win, it will be for Ivan. Not because anyone told you to. But because you decided your brother deserves a victory that no institution can touch. A victory that belongs only to the two of you.”

She stares into my eyes.

“It’s time for someone to fight for Ivan.”

I nod and realize the booking isn’t a punishment, but a stage.

She kisses my cheek, left side first, always, then pulls back just enough to squint at me like she’s sizing up a particularly stubborn mule.

“Tell me, Alejandro… this Cancer Jiles,” she says, drawing out the name like it tastes ridiculous, “he really calls himself Cancer? And wears the sunglasses inside?”

“My sources tell me he’s named after the Tropic of Cancer, but the illness suits him,” I reply.

She snorts, a quick, delighted sound, and shakes her head. “Madre de Dios, the things you Russians fight over.”

Then she pats my chest twice. “Go win, mi amor. I want to see the look on his face when a sixty-year-old manager makes him cry. I will livestream the whole thing! Title it ‘Cuban Woman Laughs at Sunglasses Man.’ It will get a million views.”

She turns toward the kitchen, already humming that bright, rhythmic Cuban song that has no business in this concrete box. Over her shoulder, without looking back: “Coffee, mi Alejandro. Strong. You’ll need it to stay awake while you figure out how to beat that idiot.”

I sit at the table. The documents spread before me. Moscow's denial. Morozova's refusal. And the match.

The only ceremony I have left.

No.

The only ceremony I need.

—

Cancer Jiles.

“Comrade. Of. Ours.”

Let me tell you what separates us.

You had a friend once. Coral Avalon tried to see past your shades to the man beneath, and when forced to choose between him and ambition, you chose ambition. That is who you are, a man who fights only for himself, even when surrounded by those who make excuses for your mediocrity.

I fight for Ivan’s legacy. For his memory. For a man denied ceremony by institutions that do not care if he lives or dies. That is the difference between loyalty and parasitism.

You and Vickie Hall are two broken people clinging to each other after you burned the only hands that offered you something real. Leeches mistaking a warm body for companionship. I know what it costs to stand beside someone when the world offers nothing but denial. When no one watches. When no one approves. When there is no applause.

You do not.

You have no cause. No belief. No center. You are a void hiding behind glasses that cannot shield an empty soul, desperate for attention because without it, you are nothing.

That’s why Lindsay Troy thought this match would humiliate me. She wanted to punish me for hurting her feelings at Colossus. She wanted to see me thrown into the ring with you on your first night back. How does it feel to sniff a semi-main event, Cancer? You’re only there because of me.

You’re welcome.

She thought she gave me a punishment. Instead, she gave me a stage.

So understand what you have actually walked into, because if you underestimate me, it’ll be your undoing.

You think you’re the worst man in the ring. You think you’re the only one who can find a blind spot, distract a referee, steal a victory, then laugh like it makes you clever. Unfortunately, there will be no Coral Avalon to protect you, this time. There is no one to tilt the angle. No one to look away. No one can save you from this Russian.

I was breaking men long before you ever dyed your hair and started calling yourself COOL. You cheat because you’re outclassed. I do it because it’s my profession. You sneak because you’re desperate. I do it because it’s doctrine.

Bring your shortcuts and your bag of tricks. I’ve built my life around reading men like you.

Like us.

Maksim called me “world champion” when he handed me the booking, with that sick little smile. I have worn the label. I have repeated it. Ivan split a crown in PCW and put half in my hands as a gift of trust, not a reward.

You destroyed your relationship with Coral Avalon out of greed. You had one real friend in this business, and you traded him for a title shot and failed.

That is the part you will never understand.

So for the naysayers, on January 16th, I earn something in front of you, and I do it with your face on the receipt, Cancer. The Former World Champion will defeat the Former Universal Champion.

I will succeed the way I have used every tool in Moscow and PRIME: with precision, with cruelty, and with absolute certainty.

I will turn Lindsay’s punishment into Ivan’s Hall of Fame ceremony. I will take this match, this joke, this mockery, and make it mean something no one can touch, no one can erase, no one can deny, not Troy, not PRIME, not even Moscow.

By the time the buzzsaw finishes with you, Cancer, it will finally be clear: I didn’t do this for myself. I did it for the man you could only dream of being, for the brother who has lost more than you would ever risk.

And when Lindsay Troy sees what I have made of her petty revenge. When she understands that I turned her humiliation into something permanent. The egg will not be on my face.

It will be on hers.

I'll win because I am better than you in every way that matters. Skill. Discipline. Conviction. When I step into that ring, Ivan Stanislav will be at ringside: Hall of Famer, comrade, a man worth bleeding for. Gema will livestream your humiliation for the world.

And you? You’ll have Vickie Hall. That’s all you deserve.

That is the difference between us, Cancer.

Purpose.

On the table, the vodka bottle sits where I left it. Two tumblers beside it. The second untouched.

You were right, Ivan. Not yet.

ONLY NOW.