I ignored them.
The fights blurred. A knife scar here. A broken nose there. Men who fought like they had nothing left to lose.
I watched the patterns. The tells. The way certain fighters favored their left. The way others telegraphed hooks with their shoulders.
Old habits.
Finally, they pointed at me and gestured toward the ring.
I stood, rolling my shoulders. My spine cracked.
My opponent was already in the ring.
French. Late twenties. Lean and showy, bouncing on his toes like he was warming up for a dance recital. The kind of build that looked good in a mirror but didn't mean much when fists started flying.
The crowd pressed closer.
The ref gestured us forward, said something in French, then clapped once.
The French fighter dropped into some theatrical stance.
Then he did a backflip.
The crowd roared.
I waited.
He circled me, making a show of it—feinting, bouncing, making little growling sounds like he thought he was a leopard.
I tracked him, letting him waste energy on performance.
He came in fast with a spinning kick.
I slipped it and drove my fist into his liver.
He folded.
I stepped back as he hit the canvas, gasping. The ref counted. The fighter didn't get up.
The crowd went silent, then exploded.
I walked out without acknowledging any of it.
I found a corner near the makeshift bar and ordered water. The bartender—a kid who couldn't have been older than twenty—handed it over with wide eyes.
"Très bien."
I nodded and drank, feeling adrenaline ebb. My knuckles ached. Good pain. The kind that reminded you that you were still sharp.
The fat men appeared, moving through the crowd like tugboats.
"American," the first one said, grinning now. "You are real."
"Told you."
"Yes, yes." He waved dismissively. "You want to fight again?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Now?"
