“A face like that hasn’t been messed up enough. Means he hasn’t seen enough fights,” the second man speculates.
“Orit could mean he’s never lost,” the first one points out.
“Well, I never lose my bets,” the man retorts.
“Yeah, right. You lost just the other night.”
Jeers and laughter sound around Ares, more voices rising, arguing, calling out names, mixing with the loud rattle of mahjong tiles from the floor above.
Ares keeps his eyes straight ahead. As his opponent lowers himself into starting position, he wonders, briefly, what brought the man through Beijing’s outer city, into the twisted alleys, down the steep steps here tonight. What kind of favor he wants from Long Ge—if it’s hard cash, or a job, or if there’s someone he needs to find, like Ares.
But he doesn’t let himself wonder any more than that. He doesn’t want to know whether the man standing before him has a mother waiting for him at home with a bowl of steaming beef noodles, or whether he’s struggling under the weight of hospital bills for his little sister’s surgery. He doesn’t want to know anything that might make him hesitate to shove the man onto cold concrete and split his skin open, because even a second’s hesitation could mean losing, and he can’t lose.
A bell rings to his left.
Ares breathes in, steels himself, and charges.
From the very beginning, he’s on the offensive.Always punch first.Old advice from his boxing coach, though he hasn’t attended a proper boxing lesson in a while now. Doesn’t have time for them anymore, and doesn’t care for official competitionsand prizes—nothing compares to what the fight club can give him if he wins.
His first punch lands with a solid, satisfyingcrack,and he immediately chases it with another punch to the stomach. If he can just keep punching, keep going no matter how wounded he is, keep drawing blood without giving his opponent a second to recover, he can win. He can separate his brain from his body, step outside himself for the duration of the match.
It’s not him in the fighting ring. That’s what he tells himself. It’s not his fist driving itself into the man’s face. It’s not his knuckles splitting open yet again upon impact. It’s not his blood filling his mouth with rust when the man punches back.
He’s above it all.
He’s only distantly aware of his arms moving, though it’s as disconnected from him as a video-game character on a screen. Like Street Fighter—that was Luke’s favorite game. Luke would always race to it at the arcade, and every time he lost, he would beg for another match, and Ares would humor him, emptying all the tokens in his pockets....
“Wocao,” the man curses, doubling over as Ares knees him bluntly in the stomach.
He shoves his opponent to the ground, pinning him down by the neck, trying not to feel the blood pulsing underneath his nails, the muscles straining around the man’s throat as he gasps.
A countdown begins.
“Three... ,” the crowd chants. “Two... one...”
And finally Ares comes back to his own body. To the pain throbbing in several different places, his own labored breathing.He wipes the sweat trickling down his jaw and stands up, even as a sudden wave of exhaustion threatens to sweep him off his feet.
From the corner of the room, Sangui steps out, fully tatted arms crossed over his chest. He catches Ares’s eye and gives him the briefest of nods before declaring to the room: “Ares has won this one.”
The crowd explodes into yells and hoots of triumph and outright gloating (“And you said his face was too symmetrical—you’re just jealous yours isn’t!”), and as dirty money is passed from hand to hand, Ares staggers off alone.
In the dingy backroom, he slumps onto the bench and mechanically inspects his wounds, the way you might inspect a car for faulty parts.
A sharp prickling in his left arm rudely calls for his attention.
He identifies a gash the length of his thumb. Sighs. Reaches into his pocket for some tissue, then dabs at his own blood. He clenches his teeth around a hiss, knowing that any noise from him would reach the ears of the men outside, and it would only invite ridicule, rather than pity.
His pain means nothing to them.
To anyone. His own father wouldn’t care if he saw him this way, though that would require him actually visiting Ares, which hasn’t happened in over a year. Their only form of communication these days is through his father’s monthly bank transfers. One hundred thousand yuan each time, more than enough to cover his school fees and his groceries. He shouldn’t complain.
The door creaks open, and Sangui ambles his way inside, whistling some old opera tune. His expression remains indifferent when he sees Ares bleeding.
“That was decent for a first match,” he says in his chain-smoker’s rasp.
“Thanks,” Ares mutters. He doesn’t feel like talking, but he also knows better than to ignore the man who’d let him join the Cave. His new membership here is his only connection to Long Ge—and his little brother, by extension—and he can’t mess things up. It’s this connection that he’s planning on using to approach Long Ge at the nightclub tomorrow, just like he’d glimpsed in the vision. Maybe, if Long Ge sees the ring on his finger, the dragon symbol marking his loyalty, he’ll be willing to hear Ares out. Ares knows that until he’s crowned victor and secures his favor, Long Ge is unlikely to reunite him with his brother—but if he could just get a new photo of Luke, a one-minute phone call, any updates about Luke at all...
“Just four more matches to go,” Sangui says, leaning one shoulder against the wall. “Next one is in three nights. Make sure you win.”
