It was just us now. Me, Bruno, and the fight.
The bell sounded with aclangthat cut through the noise, and we circled. Careful. Calculating. For the first few seconds, we were evenly matched—two predators testing each other’s weaknesses. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, the rest of the world blurring to nothing but the man in front of me and the faint vibration of the crowd pressing in.
Bruno’s right hook clipped my cheekbone and rattled my vision. The strike lit a fire in my chest, a surge of adrenaline so sudden and pure it tasted metallic on my tongue. My hands came up automatically; my body snapped into rhythm, muscle memory overriding thought.
We traded blows—tight, clean shots. I landed a jab to his ribs, and he countered with an elbow that scraped my temple. The cage echoed with everyimpact, the crowd roaring louder with each connection. Sweat stung my eyes. Blood was in the air, but not his.
By the time round one ended, I was bleeding. Split lip, maybe a cut near my brow—didn’t matter. The bite of pain made me focus. I stood tall, chest heaving, jaw clenched.
Bruno? He was posturing. Cool and composed, the barest smirk twitching at his mouth as he shook out his arms as if he wasn’t even warmed up yet.
Asshole.
But I wasn’t done.
The bell rang again.
Round two.
We moved faster this time—less testing, more teeth. I ducked a hook, swept low with a kick to his shin that threw him off-balance. He came back with a brutal uppercut that clipped my jaw, and stars burst behind my eyes.
Bruno was clean, controlled, and relentless. Every hit from him had purpose—no wasted movement, no showboating. He didn’t fight to impress. He fought to end it.
And I fought to feel something other than the fire tearing through me.
I landed a solid body shot that made him grunt—small victory. I felt the shift in the crowd, a ripple of sound, as if they’d smelled blood. Maybe mine. Maybe his.
He charged, and I took him to the cage wall, shoulder first, gritting my teeth as my taped ribs screamed in protest. We broke apart, both of us breathing harder now. Sweat slicked my spine. The air reeked of rust, metal, and old violence.
He got a glancing blow to my gut. I caught his jaw with a cross that sent sweat flying. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
We circled again, slower this time, bruises blooming with every breath.
By the end of round two, I’d given more than I’d taken—but only by a small margin.
And Bruno? He still wasn’t fucking bleeding.
Round three.
No more measuring. No more thinking.
We collided as if we’d been waiting for it all night—flesh on flesh, bone to bone. I ducked, threw a kick that connected with his thigh, but he didn’t flinch. He came back with a combo—left jab, right cross, knee to my gut. The last one landed hard. I folded just enough for him to catch my temple with a hook that sent me stumbling.
The crowd roared, feral now, their voices blurring into a single, deafening noise.
My breath rattled. The copper tang of blood coated my tongue.
Bruno pressed in, all precision and patience. No wild swings. No wasted effort. As if he were dissecting me. Picking me apart a little at a time.
I got a shot to his shoulder, then another to his ribs. He grunted, maybe, but didn’t back off. Didn’t falter.
Pain flashed like fire through my left side. My ribs were screaming. The tape was holding but I could feel the ache.
I threw a wild punch, but I missed. He countered with a clean uppercut that snapped my head back, stars detonating behind my eyes again. My knees wobbled for a second.
I didn’t fall.
The bell rang.
