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The lack of rounds, the absence of any semblance of structure, it's all foreign to me. I've seen enough movies to know there should be a bell, some time to breathe. But here, in this underworld coliseum, there's no respite, no cornermen, just raw aggression and survival.
I can't understand why none of Declan's men are watching the fight. I look around and as far as I can tell, it's just the four of us. Perhaps Declan isn't as confident as he makes it seem that he'll win this fight.
"Who's winning?" Evan's tiny voice cuts through the haze of my thoughts. He's clutching the hem of my shirt, his wide eyes fixed on the chaos before us.
"Constantino is," I lie, offering him a smile that feels like it could shatter at any moment. Is he buying it? Can he see the tremors of doubt ricocheting around inside me?
Evan nods, but his gaze doesn't leave the fight. The little warrior in him wants to believe, needs to believe. And who am I to steal that from him?
My attention snaps back to the center of the room, where Constantino weaves and dodges with a desperate sort of grace. His dark hair clings to his sweat-slicked forehead, and those green eyes—wild and unyielding—are locked onto Declan. He's a storm personified, all thunderous rage and lightning strikes.
But as they trade vicious blows, my eyes trace the outline of the leather band snug around his wrist, hiding the mark of his vulnerability. It's a reminder of the secret he guards so fiercely, the fault line threatening to split open beneath him.
What if he falls? What if he can't stand back up? The questions circle in my mind like vultures, preying on my fears. If Constantino goes down, what becomes of us? Of Evan, this innocent soul caught in the crossfire?
My doubts seem to morph into reality. The room's stifling air chokes me as I watch Declan's fist connect with Constantino's jaw—a sound like cracking branches fills the space, and he crumples to the floor. Evan's grip on my hand tightens, his small body rigid with fear. "Is he okay?" he whispers, but I can't find words to comfort him.
"Stay down," Declan sneers, a cruel smile spreading across his bearded face. Laughter erupts from his throat, echoing off the walls.
Constantino's on the ground, his chest heaving, eyes shut tight. The tremor in his limbs isn't just from the fight; it's a sign of the storm brewing inside him, I'm sure of it.
This is wrong—so damn wrong—and I feel it in my bones. But I push aside the terror clawing at my insides because Constantino needs something I can give: belief. "Come on! Get up!" My voice breaks through the tension, a clarion call amidst the darkness. "Fight, damn it!"
He groans, a low sound that vibrates through the room, and his eyes snap open. There's a flicker there, a spark rekindled by my shouted plea. He pushes himself up, an act of defiance against Declan's mockery.
Declan leans in, ready to deliver another blow, thinking he's broken Constantino. But he's sorely mistaken. With a sudden burst, like a beast unleashed, Constantino springs up and slams his fist into Declan's chin. It's poetry in violence, an uppercut that sends Declan stumbling back, shock painted across his brutish features.
My shouts are lost in the adrenaline-fueled haze, but I don't care. I'm on my feet now as I will Constantino on with every fiber of my being.
There's no holding back as Constantino advances, his green eyes ablaze, each punch thrown with a savage grace. They're the culmination of every challenge he's faced, every hidden battle with his own body. One hit after another lands, flesh colliding with flesh, until Declan crashes to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. His chest barely rises and falls, and I'm not even sure if he's still breathing.
"Is it over?" Evan's voice quivers, and I turn to see his wide eyes fixed on the fallen man.
I nod, though uncertainty gnaws at my gut. "Yeah, I think so." The words taste like ash in my mouth because the truth is, I have no idea what comes next.
My heart slams against my ribcage. Constantino's towering frame in one moment stands tall above Declan and in the next crumples like a marionette with cut strings, his body writhing on the cold concrete floor. Panic seizes me as he convulses, muscles clenching in a macabre dance, betrayal by his own flesh.
"No!" I scream, breaking the eerie silence that fell over us after Declan's body hit the ground. My voice is strangled by fear, raw and desperate.
I run toward the seizing form of Constantino, but that's when I see it—a twitch, a subtle shift in Declan's mountainous frame.
He's alive.
This isn't over.
"Evan! Go to him," I command, pointing at Constantino. "Take your shirt off, roll it, put it in his mouth so he doesn't bite his tongue. Hurry!"
The little boy, eyes wide with terror, nods and dashes forward, shedding his shirt with trembling fingers. He does asI told him, staunch and brave for someone so young. I turn my attention back to Declan, whose chest rises with labored breaths.
I can't hesitate. Not now.
I make my decision in a fraction of a heartbeat and throw myself toward Declan, my knees hitting the floor hard enough to bruise. I straddle his broad chest, pressing down with all my weight, hands shaking as they find his thick neck. I press into the soft flesh, seeking the carotid arteries.
In that moment, I betray the oath every doctor takes: to do no harm. But, there's barely any hesitation in my movements.
His eyes flutter open, confusion clouded by pain, and for a moment, our gazes lock—a silent understanding passing between us. Then his hands come up, grappling weakly at my wrists. It's pathetic how quickly the mighty fall.
I push harder, willing my arms to have the strength they need. I can feel the pulse beneath my fingertips, the thrumming life I'm extinguishing. His struggles grow fainter, the fight leaving his body as his consciousness slips away.
