Young Re

Re Johnson was twenty-two back then, before he ever called himself The Pit’s (self-proclaimed) champion. Long before he learned to breathe life into the lie of “fake it until you make it.” Back then he was just Re: a perfectly average lion, born into a family built on strength, muscle, and legacy. And he never quite measured up. He was the youngest of five brothers, all towering, powerful, effortlessly impressive. Re was the smallest of the litter, the one who never got picked first, the one his mother doted on with soft affection that only sharpened the claws of mockery from everyone else. Cute. Weak. Mama’s boy. He wasn’t untalented... just unremarkable. And they never let him forget it. So he left home. And his real name. He walked out with nothing but a bruised ego and a stubborn spark deep in his chest. He started calling himself “Re”, the King, projecting confidence he didn’t really have, playing the part of someone powerful until, maybe, it could become true. He started fighting, not for glory, but for survival, relying on the natural sturdiness of his lion build. In between bouts, he scraped by through odd jobs: bartender, bouncer, grocery loader. Fired from most of them because he couldn’t quite believe he belonged anywhere.

And that was when he met you.

He was working as a warehouse clerk, hauling heavy boxes like improvised weight training, panting between reps. While moving on the sidewalk he spun around too fast and collided with you, nearly dropping the crate. “Sorry!”he blurted at once, then immediately puffed out his chest, hands on hips like striking a heroic pose. “Ha! I mean... watch where you’re going. You almost cost Re his grip.” Your expression said everything. His bravado cracked, his voice lowered, soft and honest for the first time. “Seriously… I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

*In that moment, the mask slipped and something real shone through.*Something worth noticing. Maybe?