“Line’s over there. The only rule is, don’t kill anyone, and if somebody stays on the ground for five seconds, they’re out.” The woman grins at me. “Don’t get too attached to those pearly whites of yours.”
Fenrir claps me on the back. “Nothing like the clean matches we usually fight in.”
“I don’t need a clean match,” I tell him. It sounds like bravado, but it’ll only take a few fights to show that I’m in deadly earnest.
This won’t be the first time I’ve fought in the darkness, where rules are overshadowed by the thirst for violence and blood.
“I’d say wish me luck, but I don’t need it,” I tell Fenrir with a fierce grin. I head to the back of the line, already vibrating with the need to throw a punch at some poor bastard’s face.
It’s not like I’m arrogant enough to think that I won’t come out of this with bruises of my own, but I can hold my own.
I scrutinize those near me. Some of them are big men, but they’ll rely on strength instead of speed.
They always do.
I roll my neck from side to side, then stretch my arms. Having time to do a proper warmup would be ideal, but what about this situation screamssafe?
“First time?” the guy in front of me asks, smirking as he looks me up and down like he’s a tiger and I’m nothing more than prey.
I shake my head. “First time here,” I say.
Fenrir gets into the ring. He’s taped up his hands and pulled his shirt off. I don’t think removing his shirt will help him fight, but it does show off his tattoos. Besides the wolf on his throat that’s always visible, there’s a wolf howling at the moon on his chest. He removed his piercings for the fight—but I also wouldn’t want to give an opponent an obvious weakness to grab and rip straight out of my skin.
His opponent is about Fenrir’s size, so there’s no real way to say how this match will go. Except I’ve seen how Fenrir fights, and I’m pretty sure he’s always holding back during the official matches.
The ref starts the match.
Fenrir immediately lunges forward.
His opponent seems ready for it, but Fenrir is fucking fast when he wants to be.
The crowd loves the match—while it lasts. Barely a minute in, Fenrir’s opponent is on the ground, wheezing. The ref counts down from five, and declares Fenrir the winner. The crowd erupts in cheers and boos.
Way too easy.
Fenrir gets out of the cage and gives me a wide grin. “Think you can win faster than that?”
“I know I can,” I retort. I don’t know who my opponent is going to be, but it doesn’t matter. I’m every bit as fast as Fenriris, every bit as strong, and I can take someone down in seconds too.
“All right kid, you’re up!” somebody says. He pushes me toward the ring.
The big guy I’d seen walking in is there too. He gives me a once over and laughs.
“Scrawny thing like you? I’m gonna snap your spine easily,” he taunts.
I flash him a grin. “You can try.” I settle into a defensive stance, but the second the ref shouts at us to go, I’m on the move.
I’m no coward.
Boxing has a lot of rules. In a proper match, with referees and points, I’d have to watch my stance and where my blows land.
But here, now? The only thing that matters is coming out on top.
I’ve had enough of being beaten down in my life. Maybe it doesn’t make sense that I’d seek it out on my own, but it’s always been cathartic to me.
It helps that I can fight back.
The first jab at my shoulder only clips it, and I move out of the way. The slight edge of pain does wonders to pull my headspace into the here and now instead of dwelling on what had driven me to fighting in the first place.
