Perhaps I have no survival instincts whatsoever.
For all I know, the man has just pointed me towards a place where no one would hear me scream before following after me himself.
Yet I go anyway.
I make my way down the stairs and push against the door at the bottom.
It doesn’t budge.
I knock, having absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do next.
This is so far outside my comfort zone it’s almost laughable.
I rarely go out.
Illegal underground fights definitely aren’t part of my usual evening plans.
A few seconds pass before the door finally opens and a man sticks his head out.
He looks at me sceptically.
He seems young, though the beard makes it difficult to tell. One moment I think he’s in his twenties, the next I add ten years to that estimate.
He wears casual clothes, sports a long beard, and has tattoos all over his face. Piercings too. Lots of them.
“Are you fucking lost?” he asks.
Judging by the way his hand tightens on the door, he’s already halfway to closing it in my face.
“Markev.”
The name stops him.
His eyes narrow for a fraction of a second before he opens the door wider and looks past me.
“In.”
I don’t waste the opportunity.
Stepping inside, I find myself grateful that he doesn’t ask any more questions.
The corridor beyond is dimly lit.
I follow the noise deeper inside as the shouts, screams, and grunts grow louder with every step.
My heart beats wildly.
I’m actually a little scared.
Truth be told, I’m a lot scared.
When I set out, I thought I might find him in some club. Yet Isaak gave me an address, told me the entrance wouldn’t be in plain sight, and said that if anyone stopped me at the door, I should give them his name.
I expected this.
An underground fight.
I make my way slowly through the mass of people towards the front.
