The Underground Fighter

Stay down

Thursday came faster than Damon wanted. He had spent Wednesday on the couch, barely moving.

The painkillers helped. The elastic bandage helped. But nothing could heal broken ribs in forty-eight hours. He accepted that. He stopped hoping for a miracle and started planning for survival.

His body was full of damage. Purple bruises covered his torso. His ribs clicked when he breathed too deep. His knuckles had swollen to twice their normal size. The scabs from Tuesday night had cracked open during sleep, leaving bloody smears on his pillow.

He looked like a man who had been in a car accident. Or a war. Maybe both.

Marcus texted him at noon.

"Fight is at 9pm. Same place as Tuesday. Different opponent. Name’s Dante. Fast. Mean. Don't underestimate him."

Damon typed back with his left hand. His right was too swollen.

"I don't underestimate anyone."

Marcus: "Good. Because Dante fought The Butcher two years ago. Lasted eight minutes. The Butcher still has scars. Dante will go for your ribs. He always goes for the weakest point."

Damon put the phone down. Eight minutes against The Butcher meant something. Dante wasn't a beginner like Tommy. He was a professional. A hunter.

Damon's weakest spot was obvious. His ribs. One good hit and he could collapse. One great hit and he could lose a lung.

He looked at his hands. Purple knuckles. Fresh scabs. He flexed his fingers. Pain shot through every joint. But movement remained. That was enough.

He stood up. His ribs screamed. His back throbbed. He walked to the bathroom. Stripped off his shirt and looked in the mirror.

The man staring back was a stranger. Thinner than a week ago. Dark circles under his eyes. A bruise on his cheek turning from purple to yellow. His ribs bulged at wrong angles.

Damon turned on the shower. Cold water. He stood under the spray until his muscles stopped shaking. The cold numbed the pain. Gave him a few hours of relief.

Then he stretched. For an hour. Slow movements. Careful movements. His ribs cracked. His hamstrings burned. His spine popped in three places.

By the time he finished, sweat dripped down his face. His body screamed for rest. But it was ready. As ready as it would ever be.

""" """" """

The warehouse at 9pm was the same as Tuesday. Low ceiling. Dim lights. Thirty people around a plywood platform. The smell of sweat and blood hung in the air.

Dante was already on the platform.

He was smaller than Damon expected. 5ft9. Maybe one hundred and sixty pounds. Lean. Wiry. Tattoos covered his arms. His eyes were cold and focused. They stayed locked on Damon from the moment he walked through the door.

Dante didn't pace or perform. He just stood there. Waiting. A predator who had already chosen his target.

Damon climbed onto the platform. The plywood creaked. The crowd went quiet.

"Your ribs are broken," Dante said. Not a question.

"Yes."

"And you're still fighting."

"Yes."

Dante tilted his head. "Why?"

"Because I need the money."

"Everyone here needs money. That's not a reason. That's an excuse." Dante's voice was calm. "I need money too. My mother has cancer. So I fight. I hurt people. And I go home and pretend I'm not destroying myself."

Damon raised his fists.

Dante looked at Damon's swollen knuckles. At the fresh scabs. At the way his right hand trembled.

"You can barely make a fist."

"I can make enough of a fist."

Dante almost smiled. "We'll see."

The referee raised his hand. The phone alarm rang.

Dante didn't charge. He moved. Fast. Side to side. His feet danced across the plywood like he was walking on air. No wasted movement.

Damon circled. Watched. Waited.

Dante threw a jab. Fast. Too fast. It caught Damon on the cheek. His head snapped sideways. The crowd hissed.

Damon recovered. Raised his hands higher.

Dante threw another jab. Then another. Then a cross. Each punch landed somewhere. Damon's forehead. His shoulder. His arm. Nothing hard. Just constant pressure.

Damon countered. A straight right. Dante slipped it. Countered with a hook to the body.

The punch landed on Damon's ribs. White hot pain exploded through his side. His vision blurred. His knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the platform.

Dante stepped back. Gave him room.

"I felt that," Dante said. "Your ribs are shattered. I can hear them clicking."

"I'm still standing."

"You won't be for long."

Dante attacked again. Jab. Cross. Hook. Uppercut. Each punch chipped away at him. Damon backed up. His heel hit the edge of the platform.

No more room.

Dante came forward. Smelling blood. His eyes were hungry now. The hunter had become a killer.

Damon stopped backing up. Stopped blocking. Stopped surviving.

He attacked.

A wild overhand right. Dante ducked. Damon followed with a knee to the stomach. Dante blocked with his elbow. Damon grabbed Dante's head. Pulled it down. Drove his knee up again.

This time it landed. Dante's body folded. His hands dropped. Damon punched. Short. Sharp. To the jaw. Dante's head snapped sideways. Blood flew.

Damon punched again. The same spot. Dante's knees hit the plywood. The crowd was silent.

Dante looked up. His lip was split. His eye was swelling shut. Blood dripped from his nose. He pushed himself up. Slowly. Painfully.

"You hit hard," Dante said through bloody teeth. "For a man with broken ribs."

"You get up fast," Damon said. "For a man who should stay down."

Dante lunged. A desperate wild hook. Damon sidestepped. Grabbed Dante's arm. Twisted it behind his back. Pushed him face-first into the plywood.

"Stay down."

Dante struggled. Damon twisted harder.

"Stay. Down."

Dante went limp.

The referee grabbed Damon's wrist. "Winner."

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

Marcus walked over. Handed him an envelope.

"Fifteen hundred. You earned it."

Damon took the envelope. Pressed it against his chest with his injured hand."Dante. Is he okay?"

Marcus looked at the platform. Dante was sitting up. His face was bloody. But he was conscious. He looked at Damon. Nodded once. Respect.

"He'll live. He won't forget you."

Damon turned to leave.

"Corso," Marcus called. "Frank wants to see you tomorrow. After your meeting with the lawyer. He has an offer."

"What kind?"

"He didn't say. But don't keep him waiting."

Damon walked out. The night air hit his face. Cold. Clean. Rain washed the blood off his hands. He took the bus home. Sat in the back. Alone.

He walked three blocks to his apartment. Climbed the creaking stairs. Unlocked the door. The apartment was dark. Empty. Silent. Damon sat on the couch. Pulled out the envelopes.

Two thousand from Friday. Fifteen hundred from Tuesday. Fifteen hundred from Thursday.

Five thousand dollars exactly.

He counted it twice. Stacked the bills. Hid them under the cushion.

Then he looked at his phone. Lucy's photo. Her empty eyes. Her braided hair.

Tomorrow he will see Elaine Park. Tomorrow he would have a lawyer. Tomorrow the real war will begin.

He closed his eyes. Slept without dreaming. His body was already too broken even for nightmares.