The knockout blow.
The ref started counting, but it was unnecessary. My opponent wasn't getting up. He was an unconscious bag of bruises on the sweat-slick canvas floor.
The crowd erupted, money changing hands as bets were settled. The ref grabbed my wrist, tried to raise it in victory as he shouted something I couldn't hear over the din. My arm was limp and heavy, resisting being raised. Still, the ref kept forcing it skyward.
I felt nothing. No triumph. No satisfaction. No relief. The anger that had driven me here still simmered beneath my skin, undiminished by violence.
I pulled my arm from the ref's grasp, ignoring his surprised look. The chants of my name—or rather, my DemonX persona which was realer than any bullshit on a birth certificate—bounced off the ceiling and walls. Hands reached for me as I pushed between the ropes and dropped from the stage. Anxiety began to buzz through me as bodies pressed close, voices overlapping:
"That was fucking savage, man!"
"Sign my shirt!"
"Are the other DemonX guys here?"
"You heading to The Boiler Room after?"
Someone tossed a black bra at me. I reflexively caught it with one hand, glanced at it, then tossed it back into the crowd.
“Asher, baby, I’m all yours tonight!”
Forcing my way through the crowd, I kept my gaze fixed on the exit sign's red glow. Someone tried to press a drink into my hand, so I curled my fingers into fists. I’d given them a good show. I’d spilled blood and sweat for their entertainment. They always wanted more.
Pushing through the side door, I entered the dimly lit hallway beyond and swung a right. The locker room was empty, thank fuck. I collapsed onto one of the scratched benches, the adrenaline ebbing and leaving delicious aching in its wake. My hands shook as I unwrapped the tape, revealing split knuckles and sickly bruises spreading across my skin.
I needed the highest of highs. I needed a year of sleep. I needed complete fucking silence. I needed?—
What? What the hell did I need?
There was a hollow space inside me that fighting couldn't fill, that fame couldn't touch, that even DemonX—the closest thing to family I'd ever had—couldn't reach. Now that the shouts of the crowd had faded, the emptiness was screaming at full volume.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and let my head hang.
Blood slowly dripped.
It dripped from my face to the floor.
If I moved my head slightly, the drops fell faster. If I stayed perfectly still, they slowed.
A small pool formed between my feet. I watched it spread, fascinated by its expansion.
Maybe I was just bleeding out slowly, from some wound I couldn't see or name.
Maybe I was spreading across the floor, the sum of me left in a wet puddle.
I’d rather burn to death than bleed out.
10
FALLON
{One month ago}
What time was it? One? Two? Four in the fucking morning?
Here, the concept of time didn’t exist.
A deprivation chamber, but not in the usual sense. This place was supposed to feed the senses. Sight. Smell. Taste. Touch.
