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I find myself blushing with embarrassment as I realize that his match is far more intense than I initially thought. The presence of cameras surrounding the ring and the overflowing crowd of spectators add to the pressure of the moment.
“Without any further delay, in the 90+ kilo category, in the blue corner, wearing white and blue, weighing 100 kilograms, with an impeccable record of 18 matches, all of them victorious, including an impressive 13 wins by knockout, an Olympic gold medalist representing Italy, let's welcome Robertooooo Pucciiiiii!” The announcer's voice echoes through the venue, accompanied by thunderous applause.
The energy in the air is electrifying, and I can't help but feel caught up in the excitement of the moment.
“And in the red corner, dressed in black and red, weighing 109 kilograms, the reigning world champion with an astonishing record of 25 matches, 24 of which resulted in triumph, 22 of them by knockout, and only one loss, which he fiercely avenged, dominating anyone who dared challenge him in the ring, hailing from London, the man known as the Morning Star, Manassehhhhh Morgensternnnnn!” The commentator's voice booms with enthusiasm, fueling the audience's fervor.
As I glance around, I can tell who the crowd's favorite is, and it's evident that they are eager to witness an epic showdown.
When I see Manasseh for the first time, stripped down to just his black pants with a red stripe on the sides and a wide belt hugging his bony hips, I begin to understand why it was so challenging for me to support him when he had the sick pleasure of putting his weight on me.
The man weighs 109 kilograms!
I bring my hand to my mouth and remain frozen for a moment, watching him standing confidently in his corner, while his opponent hops from one foot to another, restless.
Seeing him in all his glory, I realize just how solid he truly is. His back is broad and muscular, and those rounded biceps and defined forearms leave no doubt about his strength. On one of his pectorals, a tattoo catches my eye, right over his heart, shaped like a cross, with the words “ALWAYS DEVIL'S SPAWN” elegantly etched into his skin. I can't make out the writing from this distance, but I remember him showing it off when we were in his room after a game. Manasseh had that tattoo done when he founded The Crasnics. I can still recall the pride in his eyes, being the first among his friends to have ink permanently etched into his skin. Manasseh and his endless quest to be a step ahead in everything. Not much has changed since then, except for his most dangerous trait that still lingers: Manasseh's unpredictability. Just because he's all smiles and relaxed now doesn't mean he won't lunge at your throat in the very next moment.
As I observe Manasseh's match, I can't help but draw these conclusions. He moves with precision, each deliberate step aiming to find the perfect opportunity to strike. Despite his opponent's relentless attacks from all angles, Manasseh remains calm and composed, learning and searching for a vulnerability to exploit—a single flaw that will lead to his triumphant knockout.
This version of Manasseh is different, wiser. He no longer charges recklessly like he used to, he waits for the right moment, and when it comes, he strikes with deadly precision. He is focused, not sparing me even a glance, despite being in the VIP box beside the ring.
But even as I watch him intently, I can't let my guard down around him. Despite granting him the very thing he desired, I know the danger still lingers.
“The winner is Morgenstern with a knockout in the second round!” the announcer's voice echoes through the arena, and the crowd erupts in cheers.
“Let's get out of here,” Peter grabs my shoulders and guides me toward the exit. “Things might get chaotic, and we don't want to get caught in the middle.”
I follow Peter down a corridor reserved for VIPs. Well-dressed individuals escape the commotion inside the arena, stepping into the secure parking lot and making their way to their cars safely.
“What sparked things up?”
“There are big bets placed on the fighters. Many were disappointed when they were deceived into betting on Pucci.”
“Why? Wasn't anyone expecting Manasseh to win?” We step out through the glass doors into the parking lot.
“Manasseh can't make a career out of this sport because of his father. For him, it's a hobby, so his participation in televised championships is quite rare. He prefers to stay low-key. He doesn't like the attention.”
“I've known him forever, Peter. If there's something Manasseh loves more than sex, it's attention,” I roll my eyes and watch as Peter opens my car door.
“People can change.”
“Not Manasseh,” I shake my head, refusing to get into the car, leaning against it instead, and observing the well-to-do couples climbing into their luxury cars. “I don't know why I'm here. I don't fit into this high-class world,” I shake my head and clutch my jacket, still carrying the lingering scent of Manasseh's presence.
“I think you're the right person at the right time. You really lifted his spirits back there. I haven't seen him so excited about a match in a long time.”
“You should have seen him back in middle school. His favorite hobby was breaking the bones of kids ten kilos lighter than him. It was his sport of choice.”
“In that aspect, he hasn’t changed,” Peter chuckles heartily and takes out a cigarette from his pack.
I think it's been more than a quarter of an hour when I see Manasseh approaching the car.
“Why aren't you in the car yet? It's cold.”
“Why do you care?” I defy him, watching as he walks around the car.
Peter puts on a long face and prefers to hide his discomfort as he gets into the car. I notice that Manasseh is injured, with a cut on his eyebrow and a bruise on his cheek, signs that he hadn't come out of this match unscathed.
“Excuse me, Manasseh Morgenstern?!” A girl about sixteen years old rushes towards our car. “Can you please give me an autograph? I'm a huge fan!”
