The Underground Fighter

Death game

The next two days passed. Damon didn't leave the apartment except to buy food. Canned beans. Bread. A bag of frozen vegetables for his ribs. He ate standing up in the kitchen, staring at the wall, chewing without tasting.

His body healed slowly. Too slowly.

The cracked ribs still ached with every breath. The bruised spine still sent shooting pains down his legs when he walked too fast. His knuckles had scabbed over but remained swollen. He could barely make a fist.

He made fists anyway. Again and again. Until the scabs broke and bled again. Pain was training. Pain was reminding.

On Thursday morning, Leo called.

"I have information," Leo said. No greeting. No small talk. "The Dravens filed an emergency motion for permanent guardianship. Court date is in three weeks."

Damon's grip tightened on the phone. "Three weeks?"

"They're rushing it. Probably hoping you won't have time to find a lawyer. Or hoping you'll do something stupid and give them more ammunition."

"Like fighting in an underground ring?"

Leo was quiet for a moment. "Like I said. Stupid."

"I don't have a choice."

"Everyone has a choice, Corso. You just chose the one that hurts." A pause. "I found someone who can help. A lawyer. Name's Elaine Park. She's expensive, but she's good. She hates the Dravens. That's why she might take your case."

"How much?"

"Ten thousand for a retainer. Plus expenses."

Damon closed his eyes. Ten thousand dollars. He had twelve hundred left. He would need to win ten fights just to afford the lawyer. And that was before expenses.

"I'll get it."

"You have three weeks."

The line went dead. Damon put the phone down. Looked at his hands. The hands that had knocked out Viktor. The hands that had loaded boxes and carried steel and tucked Lucy into bed a thousand times.

Ten thousand dollars.

Friday's fight paid one thousand. He would need nine more after that. Nine more fights. Nine more men willing to bleed for money.

He could do it. He had to do it.

Thursday night, Damon couldn't sleep.

He lay on the couch, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. The stain had grown larger since Olivia died. Like the apartment was dying too. Rotting from the inside out.

He thought about Lucy. Wondered what she was eating. Whether she was sleeping. Whether she had stopped asking for him yet.

Children forgot. That was the cruelest truth he had learned. They forgot faces. Voices. The smell of a parent's skin. Given enough time and distance, Lucy would forget him completely.

Unless he got her back first.

Damon sat up. His ribs protested. He ignored them.

He walked to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror. The man staring back was a stranger. Thinner than before. Darker. The softness was gone from his face, replaced by something hard and sharp.

He didn't recognize himself.

That was good. The man he used to be couldn't survive what was coming.

Damon splashed water on his face. Then he did something he hadn't done in weeks. He stretched. Slowly. Carefully. His body screamed with every movement. He pushed through it.

He stretched until sweat dripped down his back. Until his muscles remembered what it felt like to be alive.

Then he practiced.

No punching bag. No trainer. Just the wall and his own shadow.

The old patterns came back slowly, then faster. His body remembered even when his mind tried to forget.

He had been a fighter once. Before Olivia. Before Lucy. Before he became a janitor who came home with sore muscles and empty hands.

He had been someone else entirely.

It was time to find that man again.

Friday came too fast and not fast enough.

Damon spent the morning at the library. The public library on Fifth Street, where the homeless slept in the corners and the computers smelled like stale coffee. He used the free internet to research Alistair Draven.

What he found made his blood run cold.

Alistair Draven wasn't just rich. He was connected. Real estate. Politics. Philanthropy. His face appeared on websites about charity galas and city council meetings. He had pictures taken with the mayor. With the police chief. With senators and judges.

One article mentioned his "beloved late daughter, Olivia." The writer called her "tragically taken too soon."

There was no mention of Damon. No mention of Lucy. It was like Olivia had never married. Like her seven years with him had been erased.

That was the power of money. It could rewrite history.

Damon closed the browser. His hands were shaking. Not from fear but from rage.

He walked out of the library. The sun was setting. The city was turning gold and red.

Time to fight.

The bus dropped him three blocks from the warehouse. He walked the rest of the way. His body was tight. His knuckles were wrapped in tape he had bought from a pharmacy. His ribs were bound with an elastic bandage.

He looked like a fighter. He felt like a dead man walking.

The door was the same as before. Gray. Windowless. Impossible.

He knocked three times.

The slot opened. The same bald man. The same broken nose.

"You're back," the man said.

"You sound surprised."

"I am. Most men don't come back after fighting Viktor. Even the ones who win."

"I'm not most men."

The slot closed. The door opened.

Inside, the warehouse was fuller than before. Eighty men. Maybe more. The air was thicker. Hotter. The smell of sweat and blood hung like fog.

Frank stood near the platform. He saw Damon and nodded. Just once. No smile. No welcome.

"The new blood," someone whispered. Then someone else. Then the whole room.

New blood. New blood. New blood.

Damon walked to the bench. Sat down. His ribs ached. His knuckles throbbed. His heart pounded in his chest.

He didn't pray. He didn't meditate. He thought about Lucy. Her face. Her voice. The way she said "Daddy" like it was the only word that mattered.

Tonight he fought for a thousand dollars.

But really, he fought for her.

Frank climbed onto the platform. Raised his hand. The crowd went silent.

"Three fights tonight," Frank announced. "Then the main event. Corso versus..."

He paused. Looked directly at Damon.

"The Butcher."

The crowd erupted. Not chanting. Cheering. The Butcher was a legend. A man who had never lost. A man who had sent six fighters to the hospital and two to the morgue.

Damon's blood went cold.

Frank had promised him "someone better." He hadn't said it would be a killer.

The bald man appeared at Damon's side. "You can still back out. No shame in it."

Damon stood up. Rolled his shoulders. Felt his ribs shift.

"I didn't come this far to back out now."

The bald man almost smiled. "Then you're either very brave or very stupid."

"Maybe both."

Damon walked toward the platform. The crowd parted for him like water.

Behind him, he heard heavy footsteps. The Butcher was coming. Damon didn't look back.