The air in the underground warehouse was thick with cigarette smoke and the metallic scent of old blood and rust that had seeped into the concrete floor over being closed for a long duration. I pressed my back against the cold brick metallic chair. The single overhead light cast harsh shadows across the faces of the crowd—faces that belonged to people who had nothing left to lose and everything to gain from watching two men beat each other senselessly for money.
Emma grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin as she pulled me closer to herself. "I can't believe we are here!" she shouted over the growing noise of the crowd unaware of the growing turmoil inside me. Her eyes were bright with excitement, the kind of thrill that came from being somewhere you absolutely shouldn't be. Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to turn around and walk out of this place.
But I couldn't leave. Not when Nate was about to step into that ring.
Nate comes and stands on one side of the circle, his face towards us but not really looking anywhere. His face had a sternness that I had never seen before—gone was the easy smile he wore in classes, replaced by something harder, more dangerous. The transformation was unsettling. This wasn't the guy who helped me on the streets two weeks ago or the one who wolfed down the food I made for Nonna. This was someone else entirely.
He started jumping in place and stretching his hands, rolling his shoulders in a practiced routine that spoke of experience. Meanwhile, I was still ruminating over the fact that whose brainy idea was it to tell him about this underground fighting circle. For the few weeks that I have got to know him, I know he wouldn't even have taken a second thought before jumping in to let him fight over here.
Sometimes I feel he loves to do this—pushing boundaries, testing limits, dancing on the edge of disaster. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was something deeper, something that required pain to feel alive.
The crowd's greeting for Nate was pretty dilute. No cheers and no boo-ings. People were curious to see the new guy perform, but there was a palpable skepticism in the air. He looked too young, too much like he belonged in a lecture hall rather than in this underground hellhole. But hundred bucks says Nate isn't even aware of the audience—his eyes are closed as he is lightly stretching his arms and legs, completely absorbed in his pre-fight ritual.
Damn, that guy can concentrate. Even with the noise of fifty people talking, shouting, and placing bets all around him, he might as well have been alone in his apartment. There was something almost meditative about the way he moved, each stretch deliberate and controlled.
Next to me, Emma starts gushing about Nate's looks, which I don't blame her for. "God, look at those shoulders, Lia."
You just can't stop yourself from appreciating the specimen which is standing in front of us. Even here, even in this awful place, Nate was undeniably beautiful. His dark hair caught the harsh overhead light, and the way his muscles moved under his skin as he stretched was hypnotic.
But all I could think about was how those same muscles might look covered in bruises and blood in a few minutes.
The announcer continued, building the crowd's energy with practiced ease. Then his voice dropped to a more serious tone, and I felt my stomach clench with dread.
"Now ladies and gentlemen, let's introduce you to the star of the night. The scourge of this underground fighting arena. The reason we had to shut this whole area down." The crowd began to stir, a ripple of excitement running through the packed bodies. "Travis 'The Crusher' Holster!"
You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. ME!
The crowd goes wild in an uproar and the lights dim to darkness. I couldn't see Nate anymore, couldn't see anything beyond the faint glow of cigarette tips scattered throughout the warehouse. The darkness felt oppressive, loaded with anticipation and the promise of violence.
A single beam cuts through the blackness at the far entrance as a man double Nate's size walks down the makeshift slope that leads to the fighting area. His steps were slow and steady, each footfall deliberate and heavy against the concrete floor. He walked like someone who knew what he was doing, like someone who had done this a hundred times before and won every single match. The beam followed him as he moved, creating an almost theatrical entrance that had clearly been choreographed for maximum impact.
As he reached the circle, the lights snapped back on, and I got my first clear look at Travis Holster. He looked to be a man in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, with the kind of face that had seen too many fights and won most of them. He was taller than Nate by an inch, but the same could not be said about his build. Where Nate had lean muscle and controlled power, Travis was pure bulk. He had a large belly that spoke of beer and late nights, but his arms were the size of Nate's thighs, thick with the kind of muscle that came from years of manual labor and street fighting.
He smirked as he took a look at Nate's figure, his eyes traveling up and down with obvious amusement. It was the look of a predator sizing up prey that had wandered too far from safety.
Somewhere when the lights were off, Nate had changed his position so his back was facing us now, and his eyes were fixated on his opponent. He was leaning forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees with his entire body coiled like a spring. His focus was absolute, every fiber of his being concentrated on the man standing across from him.
Still concentrated. Assessing. Even facing someone who outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, Nate looked calm, analytical. He was studying Travis—methodically, thoroughly, looking for weaknesses and patterns.
For some reason, my heart sank as something akin to fear started rising up my spine, making my heart run just a tinge faster. None of it made sense since I don't even like Nate.
A silent prayer started going off in my head as the crowd began chanting Travis's name in unison. "CRUSHER! CRUSHER! CRUSHER!" The sound was deafening, a rhythmic pounding that seemed to shake the very walls of the warehouse. If I wanted it to be this way or not, I was rooting for Nate to at least come out of this alive.
"You know, this Nate guy goes to our—" Emma started, but one look at my face made her words falter. "Oh, you already know." She assessed me for a few seconds with the kind of knowing look that made me want to hide.
She went back to sipping the beer in her hand, which I have no idea where she got it from. The guys sitting next to her were shouting Nate's name, but their voices were completely drowned out by the uproar of his opponent's supporters.
The announcer stepped back, and suddenly the warehouse fell silent. It was the kind of silence that preceded violence, heavy and expectant. Both fighters moved to the center of the circle, and I could see the difference in their sizes even more clearly now. Travis looked like he could snap Nate in half without breaking a sweat.
"Fight!" the announcer shouted, and everything exploded into motion.
To my surprise, Nate moved first. He was fast—faster than Travis had expected, clearly. While the bigger man was still raising his guard, Nate had already closed the distance between them, his fist connecting with Travis's ribs in a sharp, precise strike that made the crowd gasp. He danced away before Travis could retaliate, bouncing on the balls of his feet with the fluid grace of someone who had been trained.
"Holy shit," Emma breathed beside me. "He actually knows what he's doing."
Nate struck again, this time aiming for Travis's face. The punch glanced off the bigger man's cheek, not doing much damage but clearly surprising him. For a moment, I allowed myself to hope. Maybe Nate's speed and technique would be enough to overcome Travis's size advantage. Maybe this wouldn't be the massacre I had feared.
Travis swung wildly, his massive fist whistling through the air where Nate's head had been a split second before. Nate ducked, weaved, and came up with an uppercut that caught Travis under the chin. The big man's head snapped back, and the crowd roared with a mixture of approval and surprise.
Nate was controlling the pace of the fight, using his speed to land quick combinations before dancing away from Travis's powerful but slow counterattacks. His footwork was beautiful to watch—he moved around the ring like a dancer, never staying in one place long enough for Travis to corner him.
But then Travis adapted.
It happened gradually at first. The big man stopped trying to match Nate's speed and instead began cutting off angles, using his longer reach to keep Nate at bay. When Nate tried to dart in for another combination, Travis caught him with a glancing blow to the shoulder that sent him stumbling backward.
The crowd's energy shifted, sensing the change in momentum.
Travis pressed his advantage, backing Nate toward the edge of the circle with a series of heavy punches. Nate managed to dodge most of them, but he was running out of room to move. When his back hit the rope of the circle.
The punch caught Nate square in the stomach, doubling him over with a sound that I felt in my own gut. Before he could recover, Travis grabbed him by the shoulders and brought his knee up, aiming for Nate's face. Nate managed to get his arms up in time, but the force of the blow sent him sprawling to the concrete floor.
"Get up!" I found myself screaming, though my voice was lost in the roar of the crowd. "Get up, Nate!"
He did get up, but slower this time, and I could see that he was hurt. There was blood running from his nose, and he was favoring his left side where Travis's punch had landed. The confident, analytical fighter from the beginning of the match was gone, replaced by someone who was simply trying to survive.
Travis sensed weakness the way a shark smells blood in water. He came forward with renewed aggression, throwing punch after punch with devastating power. Nate tried to maintain his defensive posture, but he was too hurt, too tired to keep up with the relentless assault.
A right hook caught him in the temple, spinning him around. Before he could fall, Travis grabbed him and drove his fist into Nate's kidneys, once, twice, three times. Each punch made me flinch as if I were the one being hit.
Nate collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. Blood was running freely from his nose and mouth now, staining the concrete beneath him. Travis stood over him like a conquering giant, his arms raised to acknowledge the crowd's approval.
"Stay down," I found myself quietly whispering. "Please, just stay down."
But Nate wasn't the kind of person who stayed down. Even as Travis showboated for the crowd, even as every rational part of his brain must have been screaming at him to quit, Nate was struggling to his feet. His legs were shaky, and he had to use the wall of spectators to pull himself upright, but he stood.
Travis's expression changed from triumph to annoyance. He had expected this to be over by now, expecting Nate to admit defeat. Instead, he was faced with someone who refused to quit, no matter how much punishment he took.
"You want more?" Travis sneered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I can do this all night, school boy."
Nate didn't respond with words. Instead, he raised his fists again, assuming a fighting stance that was noticeably less steady than before but still determined. There was something different in his eyes now—not the analytical calm from before, but a kind of desperate fury that I had never seen in him.
Travis charged forward, confident that he could finish this quickly. But desperation can make people dangerous in ways that confidence cannot anticipate. As Travis threw what should have been the finishing blow, Nate did something unexpected.
He stopped trying to avoid the punch entirely. Instead, he stepped into it, taking the hit on his left shoulder while driving his own fist directly into Travis's solar plexus with everything he had left.
The effect was immediate and devastating. Travis's eyes went wide with shock as all the air left his lungs in a single, massive whoosh. He staggered backward, clutching his chest and gasping like a fish out of water.
For the first time in the fight, the big man looked vulnerable.
Nate didn't waste the opportunity. Moving with a speed born of desperation, he launched himself at Travis, raining punches down on the bigger man's head and body with wild abandon. These weren't the precise, technical strikes from the beginning of the fight—they were the desperate flurries of someone who knew this might be his only chance.
Travis tried to defend himself, but he still couldn't breathe properly, and Nate's sudden burst of aggression caught him completely off guard. A punch to the jaw snapped his head to the side. Another to the ribs made him grunt in pain. When he tried to grab Nate and wrestle him to the ground, Nate slipped away and caught him with an elbow to the temple that made his knees buckle.
The crowd had gone quiet, shocked by the sudden reversal. Even Emma had stopped cheering and was watching with wide-eyed amazement.
Travis swung desperately, but he was off-balance and still struggling to breathe. Nate ducked under the wild haymaker and came up with an uppercut that caught Travis directly under the chin. The big man's head snapped back with a sound like a baseball bat hitting a watermelon.
For a moment, Travis stood there swaying like a tree in a strong wind. His eyes were unfocused, and I could see that he was fighting to stay conscious. Then, like a giant redwood finally succumbing to the lumberjack's saw, he toppled backward and hit the concrete floor with a crash that I felt through the soles of my feet.
The warehouse erupted in chaos. Half the crowd was cheering, amazed by the incredible comeback they had just witnessed. The other half was booing, furious that their favorite had been defeated by someone they had written off as an easy mark. Money was changing hands everywhere as bets were settled and new ones were placed for the next fight.
But I only had eyes for Nate.
He stood over Travis's unconscious form, swaying slightly on his feet. Blood covered his face and shirt, and I could see that he was barely conscious himself. But he had won. Against all odds, despite being outweighed and outmatched, despite taking a beating that would have hospitalized most people, he had won.
The announcer raised Nate's hand in victory, shouting something about heart and determination, but something had caught my attention. A camera click. I turned and what I saw boiled my blood, and before I could have any rational thoughts, my body had already moved.