"One of our regulars—" He made a gesture that meant sick. "He call, say he cannot come. So, we need someone."
I studied them both. Something off about the way they looked at me. Too eager. Too calculating.
Crooks were crooks. You couldn't wipe that look off their faces.
"When?"
“Thirty minutes.”
"Fine."
They grinned at each other.
"Good, good. Thirty minutes."
It wasn't thirty minutes. It was two hours. And when they finally called me back, I understood why they'd been smiling.
Two fighters stood waiting.
Not twins, but close. Brothers. Same broad shoulders, same thick necks, same meaty hands. Pig faces. Small eyes set too close together.
I stopped at the edge of the ring and looked back at the fat men.
"Two?"
The first one shrugged. "Rules say nothing about numbers."
"That's not?—"
"You want fight or no?"
I looked at the brothers. They were grinning, thinking this would be easy.
"Yeah. I want to fight."
I climbed into the ring.
The ref clapped his hands and stepped back.
The brothers spread out immediately.
Smart.
They'd done this before. Knew how to work angles, how to divide attention.
I moved to the center, giving myself room to see both at once.
The one on my left came first—testing, throwing a jab about gauging distance. I slipped it and didn't counter. Not yet.
The one on my right circled wider.
They were patient. Disciplined.
Good.
The left one came again, harder, a combination that forced me to step back. The right one moved in immediately.
I pivoted, angling away so they had to adjust, burning energy to reposition.
