Page 81

Kowalski gasps, staggers, but Stitch is on him, raining blows with both fists. She punches until her knuckles split, until Kowalski stops moving. Then she stands, shaky, and raises her arms in victory.

The crowd loves it. They chant her number, pound on the glass, throw whatever coins or scraps they have at the edge of the pit.

The guards don’t look pleased. Kowalski is one of theirs, after all. They drag his body out, then turn to Stitch. She’s smiling, blood pouring from her lip, eyes wild. She looks up at the stands, at our block, then at me.

I nod, once.

The next match is a joke—two scrawny teens from the new intake, neither willing to throw a punch. The crowd is bored, starts booing before the first minute is up. The guards end it early, tasering both and hauling them off like sacks of meat.

The tension shifts. I feel it like a weather change. The next fight will be big, or it’ll be a riot.

The guard with the bullhorn calls out, “One-three-two. Report to the pit.”

My hands go numb.

I scan the pit’s perimeter again—where Kang said the weak spot in a hold might be. I count bodies, gauge reach. If it’s someone faster than me, I’ll have to go for the knees. If it’s someone bigger, I’ll go for the throat and hope muscle memory doesn’t betray me.

Stitch is waiting by the entrance, still grinning, blood in her teeth. She pats my shoulder as I pass.

“Give ‘em hell, doc,” she says. “Make it quick.”

The guards open the gate. I step in.

The pit feels smaller now, the glass overhead pressing down, the stares of a hundred inmates burning into my skin. My opponent is already there—a woman from B block, taller than me, but soft in the middle, arms ropy with old muscle gone to seed. She looks nervous, but I know better. The nervous ones are the most dangerous.

The bell rings.

We circle. She’s slow, but her reach is good. She swings first, a haymaker that would have taken my head off if I hadn’t ducked. I counter with a jab to her solar plexus, but it’s like punching a tire. She grunts, then grabs me by the collar, tries to choke me with my own jumpsuit.

I twist, slamming my knee into her thigh. She lets go, but not before raking her nails across my face. I taste blood. My own, this time.

The crowd is screaming, but it’s all white noise. The world narrows to the two of us, the pit, the fists and feet and elbows.

She tries to tackle me. I let her use her momentum to roll, end up on top. I hit her once, twice, three times, the sound of bone on bone echoing in my head. She bucks me off, but I’m ready, already on my feet, breathing hard but steady.

She charges, desperate now. I sidestep, grab her arm, and twist. It breaks with a pop. She screams, and the crowd goes insane.

I finish it with a punch to the jaw, dropping her cold.

Silence, then thunder.

I stand there, shaking, blood running down my chin. The guards wait a beat, then open the gate. I stumble out, vision blurry.

Stitch is there, holding a rag to her nose, grinning like a maniac.

“You did it,” she says.

I nod, too tired to speak.

We sit together on the bench, the roar of the crowd fading. Above us, the guards watch, faces unreadable.

I catch a glimpse of Kang in the upper tier, arms folded, eyes fixed on me. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod. Just watches.

I wonder what he sees.

I wonder if he cares.

I wonder if I do.