Augusto
The cloth tightens around my knuckles, stretching away its softness and readying my hands for the damage they’re about to inflict.
There’s no room for softness down here in the ward that time forgot. Only broken gurneys, dusty tables and once-sterile cabinets long-emptied of medical supplies and pharmaceuticals.
It’s a quiet night tonight. Just two of my men are here this evening.
Only one opponent.
And judging by the sound of footsteps echoing through the stairwell, he’s just arrived.
I don’t look up as he enters. Instead, as always, I focus on my hands.
I wrap the final section of cloth and secure it carefully, obliterating the inked patchwork of thorns that covers the back.
The fabric bites into skin that is already scarred from a lifetime of impact, the pressure familiar and grounding.
Cutting to the cold concrete, I let my gaze find the man.
His boots first. Combat-style.
First timer.
Anyone who’s taken part in an underground fight knows the heavier the boot, the slower the move. He’s thinking a few kicks to my shin—or, if he’s feeling particularly athletic, my ribs—is going to buy him a victory. What he’s too naïve to know is I have the speed and strength to knock him out cold before he can engage both thigh muscles.
Next, his pants.
Sweats. Loose, light, airy.
Green.
Extra fabric makes it hard for a limb to slice through the air. And that shoestring waistband is a strangled kidney just waiting to happen.
His torso is ripped beneath a tight gym top. He’s going to be an upper body fighter, entirely. And that, right there, is how I’ll take him down.
But, judging by the look on his face, he’s expecting the opposite. A smug sneer curls his top lip, making his handlebar moustache look comically lopsided.
Shame I’m not in the mood for laughing.
This fight isn’t a game, and this club isn’t kindergarten. People come here to fight, to pay off debt, to settle scores, to get the beating they deserve.
Not one person has walked out of this place unscathed, and part of me wonders if that’s the appeal. Every asshole who takes me on wants to be the first to put me on the ground, the last to tap out.
If I had a bigger ego, that might make me snicker. But I don’t, so it kinda pisses me off.
I formed this club as a way to keep consequence and retaliation off the streets. The fewer incidents the authorities have to deal with, the better we look, and the more likely they are to turn a blind eye when, on the rare occasion, ourbusiness activitiestake an unfortunate turn.
I hold his gaze as I rise to my feet. He fixes his expression but I don’t miss the glimmer of apprehension in his eyes when I tower over him by a foot, at least. It almost doesn’t seem fair.
Which makes the first and only question I ask every opponent even more important.
We meet in the center of the room, ensuring there’s enough space around us. My voice echoes deeply through the sparse forgotten ward.
“Are you here out of choice?”
His eyes widen, just a touch, then he frowns. “Do you see anyone holding a gun to my temple?”
I give my head a half shake, allowing the underestimation of what he’s walking into to hover like a rancid smell. “Coercion isn’t always visible.”
