The doors closed.
I cracked my neck.
Someone was going to have a very bad night.
??????
The pit took lives.
Not every night. But enough that everyone who entered understood the possibility. The fighting was unregulated—no rounds, no referee, no bell to save you. The betting was profitable precisely because of that. Men wagered on outcomes that had no rules governing them, which meant the odds shifted on instinct and reputation and the look in a man’s eyes when he stepped through the cage door.
Tonight my eyes were not reassuring.
A perfect outlet for me.
The cage door slammed shut, locking us in.
I eyed the hefty fucker up. He looked spooked—which was either good instincts or bad luck, and either way wasn’t going to help him.
“Forget that I am the Pakhan tonight,” I said, slapping my bandaged fist into my palm.“Don’t hold back. Because I won’t.”
The crowd responded. Cheers, whistling, empty cans thrown at the cage from the watching men, the charged atmosphere of a room that could smell blood coming and approved.
“Go on,brat,” Konstantin called from outside the cage.“Show them you haven’t gone soft.”
I smiled.
I began to circle. The fighter across from me had found his nerve—squaring up, weight distributed, fists raised. Credit to him.
“Come on,” I said.“Hit me.”
He jabbed. I ducked. Fast for his size—faster than he looked, which was the most dangerous kind.
“Hit me, pussy,” I said, raising my fists.
His blow came from nowhere. Fist connecting with my jaw, my head snapping to the side, the clean bright shock of impact moving through my skull.
The crowd erupted.
“That’s it,” I laughed, rolling my neck.“There you go.”
The hit emboldened him. His defensive posture loosened. He thought he had found something.
He moved again.
This time I lunged sideways, pivoting low, and came up with the uppercut. His head flew back. Before he could recover I was already on him—pummelling, relentless, no space between the blows.
Left, right, left, right, left, right.
He staggered. Tried to raise his hands.
I landed a right hook to his kidneys.
He went down.
I dove on top of him and kept going. The crowd noise became something shapeless, a wall of sound. There was nothing in my head except the impact — fist on face, blood, bone, the wet sound of it, the particular satisfaction of a body that needed to hit something finally hitting something.
Blood. Bone. Spit. All of it spilling out beneath me.
