Prologue: Bam
Youdon'ttastetheblood until it's already in your mouth.
The ring is stripped of humanity, knuckled raw by bare feet, spit and blood spilled. I'm standing in it, shirtless, head pounding, breath coming in through broken cartilage. My opponent's on the mat, curled like a kicked dog. I plant my foot on his ribcage—feel it bend, hear the pop. The crowd howls approval, the sound slicing through the damp, musty air.
Someone tosses me a towel. I ignore it. Sweat and blood are a better currency here.
The crowd is a herd, single-celled and hungry. They want a show. I give them one. I raise both arms and snarl, teeth pink,eyes scanning for the next asshole with a death wish. There's always someone, always the next. My fists ache. My jaw rattles.
In the stands is Colton’s dad, placing bets on me, ready to collect when I place the next beat down. He’s the only one I care about to give me approval.
This is the only time I feel alive.
Fighting. Hurting. Winning.
Out on the fringe, the money men lurk with their record books and their knives. The promoter is there, too, a rodent in a three-piece, sweating through his collar as he counts bills with the speed of a rat on coke.
He waits until I'm off the mat, then waddles over. “You wanna get paid or you wanna stand there bleeding?”
“I can do both,” I tell him, reaching for the cash. His hand lingers, maybe waiting for a thank you, maybe afraid I’ll break it. I squeeze his wrist hard enough to get the point across. “You got another one for me?”
“Night’s still young,” he grunts, snatching his hand away. “We’ll see who crawls in next.”
He leaves me with the roll, thicker than I’ve had before and I grin. When my drug addicted parents used everything we had,started selling my shit to fuel their habits, I’d escape here. To the only place that accepted me for the animal I am.
The place that welcomed me with open arms and gave me space to build my own legacy.
And I did. At seventeen, I was already feared. I’d been in the circuit since just shy of my sixteenth and came here every Saturday ever since. Hours upon hours in the ratty gym across the street had paid off, along with a good dose of steroids to speed my gains. Men double my age were terrified of fighting me and those were the ones that made me the most money.
All of it sitting in a duffle bag in a place my ‘parents’ will never find.
Fuck them and fuck drugs.
I tuck the cash into my waistband and stumble to the concrete benches, scraping splinters from the wood with the heel of my hand. The other fighters don’t look at me; some are too busy fixing their noses, others too busy praying.
I’m not here to make friends. I’m not here for anything but the next fight. If I ever knew another way, it’s long gone.
There’s a split on my cheek. I press my thumb to it, dragging the clotting red down to my jaw. The pain sharpens me—makes it real, gives it shape.
I close my eyes and let the noise burrow into my skull.
Outside, the world is colder. Streetlight buzz. Grease smoke from the carts. Rain trying to fall but never quite making it. I walk past the bouncers and they nod me through, not because they respect me but because they’re paid to look the other way.
Ex-military types too fucked up for regular jobs.
The back alley is a puddle of garbage and piss, the brick walls still sweating from last night’s storm. I can smell the iron, thick and familiar. It hits something old in me, a memory curled in the pit of my stomach.
For a second, I’m not even here.
I’m smaller, hungrier, teeth chattering with cold and rage. I’m in some other alley, years back, scraping up cigarette butts for warmth and eating from whatever bin the rats haven’t claimed yet.
There’s a hand on my shoulder. Not a threat—at least, not yet.
I remember the man who owned the hand. Colton’s father. The Boss, even back then.
He crouched down so we were eye to eye, the suit creasing at his knees. “You fight because you have to, or because you like it?” he’d asked, voice slow and steady like he already knew the answer.
I spat blood at his shoes. “Both.”
