And I’m left behind, my fists clenched, my blood boiling, with literal blood handprinted on my face.
That’s it.
I officially hate the bastard.
And I will make his summer hell.
2
VAUGHN
“Go, go!”
I spit blood on the ground as the cheering intensifies from both sides.
Yulian jumps in place, half naked. His eyes are bloodshot, and he’s sporting a black eye—not my doing.
What is my doing, however, are the lacerations on his chest. I pummeled the prick to the ground less than a minute ago, but he got me good with a punch to the cheek.
He’s grinning, motioning at me to come get him, and as I catch my breath, I look at his left side, where a large bruise spreads along the skin.
Yulian is full of them. Bruises, scars, burn marks on his back—don’t want to know the reason for those. Ever since the camp started over four weeks ago, he’s been getting new injuries all the time.
The doctor on-site expects to see him at least once or twice daily. He doesn’t go himself, so he’s mostly dragged there by either Cyrus or Danil—that’s the name of their chief guard on this convoy, the one who has the scorpion tattoo and seems to have been given clear instructions to keep this suicidal motherfucker alive.
A difficult feat with someone who truly seems to love challenging every law of physics available.
The last thing I want is to fight him. He’s entirely too unserious for my taste, and getting involved with him is a waste of my time.
But this is physical training, and I had to take part in hand-to-hand combat with the bastard.
Guards from both our sides are circling our makeshift arena. Niko tries to fight Cyrus, who completely ignores him, so he moves to two other kids sent by the Chicago mafia.
The sun blazes down on what must be the hottest, most humid day of the camp. Sweat drips along my temples and glistens over Yulian’s chest.
“Come oooon!” he shouts, holding up his barely bandaged fists. “Don’t just stand there, Mishka.”
I lunge at him and shove him to the ground. Then the force of gravity pulls me down as well, and I end up on top of him, my knees on either side of his waist. I pull at his hair, shoving his head back with the force of it as I snarl near his ear, “I told you not to call me that.”
“But it suits you?—”
I strike him in the face, and he grunts, but before I can bash his head into the ground, he shoves me away. In a blur of motion, he gets on top and punches my face as he grabs my collar and pulls me up.
“I can stop calling you Mishka if you quit being a baby.”
“You goddamn?—”
I drive my fist into his face again, then he does the same to me. Soon, we’re rolling on the ground, wrestlingand kicking, with everyone going wild. Niko’s shouting, “Finish the bastard!” while Yulian’s side cheers him on with renewed energy.
They actually call him a mad dog. I heard it the other day when they were talking about today’s sparring match and how their “mad dog” would avenge them for my winning against them.
Mentors watch the match closely, not really expected to interfere unless there’s a fatal threat. This isn’t meant to be clean combat since that doesn’t exist in our world anyway.
They’re here to make sure we have the necessary skills, which is why I participated in the first place. Despite the world I come from, I don’t fight unless I have to.
But I must say, I’ve been looking forward to bloodying this prick senseless.
He’s had it coming.
