The Underground Fighter

Tournament ahead

"You're stubborn," The Butcher said. "I'll give you that." The Butcher was staring at Damon with something new in his eyes. Respect. Or maybe confusion.

He had hit Damon with everything short of a killing blow. And still the broken man stood.

Damon didn't answer. He couldn't. His lungs were still weak. But his feet stayed planted. His fists stayed raised.

The crowd had gone quiet again. Eighty men holding their breath. Watching to see if the miracle would happen.

The Butcher came forward again. Slower this time. More cautious. He threw a jab. Damon slipped it. Another jab. Damon ducked. The Butcher followed with a hook to the body.

Damon saw it coming.

He turned his hip. Let the punch glance off his side instead of landing clean. It still hurt. Everything hurt. But he stayed standing.

Then he threw a punch of his own.

A straight right. Not fast. Not powerful. But unexpected. The Butcher had gotten used to attacking. He had forgotten that wounded animals still had teeth.

The punch caught The Butcher on the cheek. His head snapped sideways. Blood flew from his lip.

The crowd gasped.

The Butcher touched his mouth. Looked at the blood on his fingers. Then looked at Damon.

"Good," The Butcher said. "That was good."

He smiled. A real smile this time. Not pity. Not condescension. The smile of a man who had finally found someone worth fighting.

Then he attacked again.

This time there was no patience. No testing. The Butcher unleashed everything.

Punches came from every angle. High. Low. To the head. To the body. Damon blocked what he could. Dodged what he couldn't. But some got through.

A hook to the ribs. Damon grunted.

A cross to the jaw. His teeth rattled.

An uppercut to the stomach. He doubled over.

The Butcher didn't let up. He grabbed Damon's head and drove another knee into his chest. Then another. Then another.

Damon's ribs cracked. He felt them go. Felt the sharp, bright pain of bone breaking.

He stumbled backward. His back hit the edge of the platform. He caught himself on the ropes that weren't there.

The Butcher stood in the center of the platform. Breathing hard. His fists were bloody. His face was bruised where Damon had hit him.

"Stay down," The Butcher said again. "Please."

Damon heard it this time. The please. The Butcher didn't want to hurt him anymore. Didn't want to add another body to his count.

But staying down meant losing. Losing meant no money. No money meant no lawyer. No lawyer meant no Lucy.

Damon pushed himself off the edge.

He walked forward. Limping. One hand holding his ribs. The other raised in a fist that could barely close.

The crowd started chanting again. Not The Butcher's name. Not Damon's.

"Fight. Fight. Fight."

The Butcher shook his head. "You're going to die in here."

"Then I'll die standing."

The Butcher charged. One last attack. A haymaker. All his weight behind it. Aimed at Damon's head.

Damon didn't duck. Didn't block.

He stepped inside the punch. Let it graze his shoulder instead of his skull. And drove his forehead into The Butcher's nose.

Cartilage cracked. Blood sprayed.

The Butcher staggered. His hands dropped. His eyes went wide.

Damon didn't stop.

He punched. Not at The Butcher's head. At his throat.

A short, sharp strike to the windpipe.

The Butcher made a sound. Not a scream. A choked gasp. His hands flew to his neck. His knees buckled.

Damon stepped back. Watched the legend fall.

The Butcher hit the plywood. His body curled. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Couldn't fight.

The crowd was silent.

Frank climbed onto the platform. Looked at The Butcher. Looked at Damon. His gray eyes were unreadable.

Then he grabbed Damon's wrist. Raised it high.

"The winner," Frank announced. "Damon Corso."

The crowd erupted. Not chanting this time. Screaming. Men who had seen everything lost their minds. They had watched the impossible. A broken janitor had beaten the legend.

Damon lowered his hand. His body was finished. His ribs were broken. His knuckles were destroyed. His leg barely held his weight.

But he was standing. That was all that mattered.

Frank pulled Damon aside. Handed him an envelope. Thick. Heavy.

"Two thousand," Frank said. "Plus a bonus. You earned it."

Damon took the envelope. His fingers wouldn't close properly. He had to press it against his chest to hold it.

"The Butcher," Damon said. "Will he be okay?"

Frank looked at the man on the platform. Two of his men were carrying him off. His face was pale. His eyes were closed.

"He'll live. He's survived worse. But he won't fight again. Not after this."

Damon didn't know whether to feel proud or guilty.

"You've got something, Corso," Frank continued. "Something I haven't seen in a long time. It's not skill. It's not strength. It's something else."

"What?"

Frank studied him. "You don't care if you die. That makes you dangerous. But it also makes you stupid. Don't let it get you killed before you get what you came for."

Damon nodded. Turned to leave.

"Corso," Frank called after him.

Damon stopped.

"There's a tournament next month. Eight men. Single elimination. Winner takes twenty thousand."

Twenty thousand dollars.

Damon turned around. "When?"

"Four weeks. Sign-up is two thousand. Non-refundable."

Two thousand dollars. Exactly what Damon had just won.

Frank was testing him again. Seeing if he would risk everything on a chance.

Damon looked at the envelope in his hands. Twenty thousand dollars would pay for Elaine Park. Would pay for a real fight against the Dravens.

"I'll think about it," Damon said.

"Don't think too long. Spots fill fast."

Damon walked out the metal door. The night air hit his face. Cold. Clean. He breathed it in. His ribs screamed.

He had won. But the war was just beginning.

His phone buzzed.

Leo: "Heard you won. Impressive. Also heard you broke three ribs. Get checked out. And call Elaine Park tomorrow. I sent you her number."

Damon typed back: "I'll call her."

Leo: "One more thing. The Dravens know about the fight. They know you won. They're not happy. Watch your back."

Damon put the phone away.

He limped toward the bus stop. The city was dark around him. Silent. Watching.

He had two thousand dollars. Three broken ribs. And a target on his back.

It was a start.