The locker room smells like sweat and antiseptic. A bare bulb swings overhead, throwing pale light across the concrete walls. Rocky is slumped on the bench, ice pack lopsided against his jaw, eyes half-shut. He took a bad round tonight. He's still here, which is all that ever counts. You've been sitting beside him for years - every fight, every slow drive home, every cup of bad coffee in corner diners. You never said a word about what it costs you. Now he's talking. Low, loose, unguarded. The kind of talking a man does when he thinks no one is really listening. You go very still. Sal stands at the doorway with his arms crossed, watching you the way Mickey always did - like he's waiting for something long overdue.