The Underground Fighter

Blood on Tuesday

The warehouse on Tuesday night was smaller than Frank's.

Damon noticed that immediately. Lower ceiling. Fewer lights. Fewer men. Maybe thirty people scattered around a platform.

This wasn't Frank's operation. This was someone else's. Someone Frank had called in a favor with.

Damon didn't ask questions. He didn't care about politics or territory. He cared about one thing: fifteen hundred dollars.

The bald man from Frank's pit was there. Standing by the door. His name was Marcus. Damon had learned it on the way over.

"You sure about this?" Marcus asked. His broken nose looked worse in the dim light. "You can barely stand straight."

"I'm sure."

Marcus shook his head. "Frank said you were stubborn. He didn't say you were stupid."

"Frank says a lot of things."

Damon walked toward the platform. Every step sent fire through his ribs. The elastic bandage helped. The painkillers helped. But nothing could hide the truth. He was fighting hurt. Fighting broken. Fighting with a body that needed weeks of rest and had only gotten days.

The crowd parted for him. They had heard about the man who beat Viktor. The man who broke The Butcher. They looked at him now with something between awe and pity.

He didn't look like a legend. He looked like a corpse walking.

A man stepped onto the platform from the other side. Young. Mid-twenties. Tattoos covering both arms. A chain around his neck. He had the cocky swagger of someone who had never been hit hard enough to learn humility.

"You the guy who fought The Butcher?" the young man asked.

"Yes."

"You don't look so tough."

Damon didn't answer. He climbed onto the platform. The plywood creaked under his weight.

The young man circled him. Showing off. Dancing on his toes. Throwing shadow punches at the air.

"I'm gonna be the one who beats the guy who beat The Butcher," he said. "You know what that makes me?"

"Alive?" Damon said.

The young man stopped circling. His face darkened. "Funny. Let's see if you're still funny after I break your other ribs."

A man in a red jacket stepped between them. Referee. If you could call him that. He held up his hand.

"No killing," the referee said. "Everything else is fair."

The phone alarm rang.

The young man charged.

Damon had expected it. The cocky ones always charged. They had something to prove. Something to show the crowd. They wanted flashy wins. Quick knockouts. Moments they could replay in their heads later.

Damon didn't want any of that. He wanted survival.

He sidestepped the charge. Let the young man stumble past him. Didn't counter. Didn't attack. Just moved.

The crowd booed.

"You gonna fight or run?" the young man shouted.

Damon circled. Said nothing.

The young man charged again. Wild punches. Loops and hooks with no technique behind them. Damon slipped one. Blocked another. Took a third on his shoulder.

Pain shot down his arm. His broken ribs screamed.

He didn't show it.

The young man was getting frustrated. His punches were getting sloppier. His breathing was getting heavier. He was burning energy. Burning rage. Burning everything he had.

Damon waited.

The third charge came slower. The young man was tired now. His hands dropped. His feet dragged.

Damon stepped inside.

One punch. Short. Clean. To the liver.

The young man's eyes went wide. His body folded. His knees hit the plywood. His mouth opened but no sound came out.

Damon stepped back. Didn't kick him. Didn't hit him again.

He just waited.

The young man stayed down. His body shook. Tears ran down his face. Not from pain. From shock. He had never been hit like that before. Had never felt his body betray him.

The referee grabbed Damon's wrist. Raised it.

"Winner."

The crowd was silent. Then someone clapped. Then someone else. Then a few more.

It wasn't the roar of Frank's pit. It was something quieter. Respect. Recognition.

Damon climbed off the platform. His ribs were on fire. His knuckles had split open again. Blood dripped onto the concrete floor.

Marcus walked over. Handed him an envelope.

"Fifteen hundred. Frank sends his regards."

Damon took the envelope. Pressed it against his chest with his injured hand. "Tell Frank I need a fight on Thursday."

"Thursday?" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You just fought."

"I need another fifteen hundred."

Marcus studied him. "You're going to kill yourself, Corso."

"Not yet. I have a court date in three weeks."

Marcus shook his head. Pulled out his phone. Typed something. "Thursday. Same place. Different opponent. Harder."

"How much?"

"Same. Fifteen hundred. Winner takes all."

Damon nodded. Turned to leave.

"Corso," Marcus called after him.

Damon stopped.

"That kid you just beat? His name was Tommy. He's been fighting for two years. Never lost. You just ended his career."

Damon didn't turn around. "He should have chosen a different career."

He walked out the door. The night air hit his face. Cold. Wet. It was raining again.

Damon took the bus home. The envelope sat in his pocket. Fifteen hundred dollars. Added to the two thousand from Friday. Three thousand five hundred total.

He needed five thousand by Friday afternoon. Fifteen hundred more. One more fight.

Thursday couldn't come fast enough.

His phone buzzed.

Leo: "Heard you won. Also heard you're fighting again on Thursday. You have a death wish?"

Damon: "I have a daughter."

Leo: "Fair. But don't die before I get paid. Elaine Park called me. She says you're her only hope for a decent case against the Dravens. Don't let her down."

Damon: "I won't."

Leo: "One more thing. The Dravens are asking questions about you. Where you go at night. Who you talk to. They know something's changed."

Damon stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Damon: "Let them ask."

Leo: "That's the spirit. Or the stupidity. I can't tell anymore."

Damon put the phone away. The bus stopped. He got off. Walked three blocks to his apartment.

The building was dark. Most of the lights were broken. The stairs creaked under his weight. Every step was a small war.

He unlocked the door. Stepped inside. Locked it behind him.

The apartment was empty. Lucy's room was still empty. The silence was still heavy.

Damon walked to the couch. Sat down. Counted the money. Three thousand five hundred dollars. In cash. In envelopes. Hidden under the couch cushion.

He looked at his phone background. Lucy's face. Her empty eyes.

"Three more days," he whispered to the photo. "Three more days, and I'm one step closer."

He closed his eyes. Sleep came fast. Hard. Dreamless.

Tomorrow he would heal. Thursday he would fight again.

Friday he would see Elaine Park.

The war continued.