The Underground Fighter

First Fight. You die, you get nothing

The door closed behind Damon. He stood in a narrow hallway lit by a single yellow bulb. The walls were unpainted. The floor was stained with something red. He didn't look too close.

"Follow me," the man from the slot said. He was short and wide, with a bald head shining under the light. His nose had been broken at least three times. "And keep your mouth shut until we're inside."

Damon followed.

The hallway opened into a larger room. Warehouse-sized. The ceiling was lost in shadow. The air smelled like beer, sweat and blood. About fifty men stood around a raised platform. No chairs. No ropes. Just a plywood covered in faded red paint.

A cage would have been kinder. This was just a stage for broken men to break each other.

The bald man pointed to a bench against the wall. "Sit. Wait. Someone will talk to you when the fights are over."

Damon sat. His ribs complained. He ignored them.

The first fight started five minutes later.

Two men climbed onto the platform. Both shirtless. Both already bleeding from warm-up fights Damon hadn't seen. The crowd didn't cheer. They watched. Silent. Hungry. Like wolves deciding which sheep to tear apart first.

A bell rang.

The men fought.

No rounds. No gloves. No rules.

The bigger man swung first. Wild. Angry. The smaller man ducked and drove his forehead into the bigger man's nose. Cartilage cracked. Blood sprayed. The crowd made sounds now. Approval. Disappointment. The grunts of men who had done this before.

The fight lasted ninety seconds. The bigger man went down. The smaller man kicked him twice in the ribs, then stepped back.

No one counted him out. No one helped him up.

Two men dragged the loser off the platform. The winner raised his bloody hands. The crowd nodded. That was their applause.

A man in a black jacket walked to the center of the platform. He had a clipboard, a phone, and a gun holstered under his arm.

"Next," he said.

Two more men climbed up.

Damon watched three more fights. Each one faster than the last. Each one more brutal. No technique. No strategy. Just rage and pain and the desperate need for money.

These weren't fighters. They were animals in human skin.

Damon could beat them.

The question was whether his body would hold together long enough to try.

After the fifth fight, the bald man returned.

"Boss will see you now."

He led Damon through a door at the back of the warehouse. Small office. Metal desk. Folding chair. A man behind the desk who looked like he had been carved from old concrete.

Fifty. Maybe sixty. Gray hair. A scar running from his temple to his jaw.

"Sit," he said.

Damon sat.

"Name."

"Damon Corso."

"Never heard of you."

"Most people haven't."

The man leaned back. Studied Damon. His eyes moved, observing the injuries, the weight, the posture.

"You're hurt."

"Healing."

"Doesn't look like it."

"It's not your body."

A small smile crossed the man's face. The first sign he might be human. "You got a mouth on you. That's good. Keeps things interesting." He leaned forward. "My name's Frank. I run this pit. You want to fight here, you follow three rules. One: no weapons. Two: no biting. Three: you win, you get paid. You lose, you get nothing. You die, that's your problem."

Damon nodded. "I understand."

"Entry fight is free. You win, you're in. You lose, you're out. No second chances."

"How much does the winner get?"

"First fight? Five hundred. If you're good, more later."

Five hundred dollars. Less than Damon made in a week at the warehouse. But it was cash. Untraceable. No taxes. No paper trail. No record for the Dravens to use against him in court.

"When?"

Frank checked his phone. "Last fight of the night. Twenty minutes. You'll be fighting a man named Viktor. Big. Undefeated here. He's killed two men in the past year."

"Anyone ever beat him?"

"No."

"Then I'll be the first."

Frank laughed. A dry, cracked sound. "You got guts, Corso. I'll give you that. But guts don't stop fists." He waved his hand. "Go warm up. Don't die too fast. It's bad for business."

Damon walked back to the bench. He stretched. Ignored the pain in his back. Ignored the doubt in his head.

Twenty minutes.

He thought about Lucy. Her face in the car window. Her voice saying "Daddy" like he was her whole world.

He thought about Olivia. Twenty-nine years old. Dead because the world was random and cruel and didn't care about love.

He thought about Alistair Draven's hand on his cheek. Cassian's empty eyes. Seraphine's fake tears.

Twenty minutes.

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

The crowd murmured. They had heard about the newcomer. The broken man who wanted to fight Viktor.

They didn't know Damon. They didn't know what he had lost. What he had survived.

They were about to find out.

The bald man walked over. "You're up."

Damon walked to the platform. Climbed the three steps. Felt the plywood flex under his weight.

Across from him, a mountain of a man climbed onto the platform. Viktor. Six-foot-five. Two hundred and eighty pounds. Hands like cinder blocks. A face that had stopped being human years ago.

Viktor looked at Damon. Smiled. Two teeth missing.

"Small," Viktor said. "Easy."

Damon said nothing. The crowd went quiet. The phone alarm bell rang. Viktor charged.