Wang stepped down from the ring, heart still thundering in his chest. His fists ached, knuckles torn raw beneath the tape—especially on the cybernetic hand, where blood smeared over the cold synthetic plating like warpaint. The lights above the cage flickered as the next fight was already being hyped up, but none of it reached him.
His vision tunneled in on one person—Rocky.
The old bastard was leaning against a pillar near the bar, cigar jammed between his teeth, arms folded across his broad chest. When Wang approached, still catching his breath, Rocky gave him a once-over.
Wang stopped a step away, panting, throat dry.
"So," Wang asked, voice hoarse, "did I… do alright?"
Rocky raised an eyebrow, then let out a dry chuckle. "Alright?"
He took the cigar out of his mouth and pointed it at the ring behind them.
"Kid, you kicked that bastard in the balls so hard the fuckin' air got sucked outta the room. Then you mounted him like a psycho and turned his face into mashed fuckin' potatoes. I'd say you knocked the fuckin' ball outta the goddamn park."
Wang blinked, lips twitching. "That's… good, right?"
Rocky clapped him on the back hard enough to make his ribs rattle. "That's great, Chang. You made a fuckin' statement. First-timers don't do that. Back in my day? First match I got tossed into? Some brick shithouse named Big Nev broke two of my ribs and knocked out four of my teeth before I even threw a punch."
Wang gave a low whistle. "Christ."
"Didn't even make any money," Rocky added, shaking his head. "Just walked out with a concussion and half a pint of blood in my piss."
He flicked ash off his cigar and grinned. "Which is why tonight, we celebrate."
Wang tilted his head. "You serious?"
"Dead fuckin' serious," Rocky said, reaching into his coat and pulling out a thick roll of dirty, creased bills. "I made a small fortune tonight. Bet on you hard. Long odds too. Nobody believed in the rookie with the dumb haircut and the bionic arm."
Wang smirked. "Fuck you."
Rocky lit the cigar again, puffing once. "No, fuck them. You're my horse now. And tonight? My horse won."
They walked toward the back of the bar together. The crowd had moved on, already screaming for the next fighters. Some nodded at Wang, a few clapped him on the back. One dude even offered a free pill, which Wang ignored with a tight smile.
They made it to the bar, where a half-naked bartender was trying to clean a glass with what looked like an old sock.
Rocky slapped the counter. "Two bourbons. Make 'em angry."
The bartender nodded without a word and poured out two tumblers full of cheap brown liquor.
Wang grabbed his and sniffed it. "Smells like paint thinner."
"That's how you know it's good," Rocky said and clinked his glass against Wang's. "To your first win. May your next one be even bloodier."
They both drank.
The bourbon hit Wang's throat like it was made of fire and regret. He coughed, eyes watering.
"Jesus," he wheezed.
Rocky laughed. "Don't worry. The second glass tastes worse."
They leaned against the bar for a moment, the noise of the pit behind them now more distant. Wang's pulse was finally coming down. His hands were steady again.
"Seriously," Wang said, glancing sideways at Rocky. "You really bet on me?"
"Hell yeah, I did. I saw you work for three months straight. You got the shit kicked out of you and showed up again the next day. That's all the fuckin' odds I need."
Wang stared down at his drink, lips pressed together.
"No one's ever bet on me like that," he muttered.
Rocky didn't say anything for a second.
Then, "Well. That's how it starts, kid. One win. Then two. Then people start knowin' your name. Some wanna fight you. Some wanna fuck you. Some wanna shoot you in the back and take your winnings. That's life."
Wang chuckled. "That supposed to be a motivational speech?"
Rocky grinned. "I'm not your therapist, Chang. I'm your handler."
They clinked glasses again.
Wang drank.
It didn't burn quite as bad the second time.
Behind them, another fight ended in screams and blood. Someone got slammed into the cage wall, and a beer cup flew across the room, soaking someone's jacket. No one cared.
Wang'd barely finished his second glass of gut-burning bourbon when two figures glided over to the bar like they'd been summoned by blood and victory.
Two girls—early twenties, dressed to kill—or at least rob you blind while you smiled about it. One had cherry-red hair in a messy bun and a low-cut leather crop top that barely covered anything. The other was chocolate-skinned, with braids down to her hips and legs that seemed to go on forever under ripped fishnets and high boots. They were both glittered, glossed, and absolutely eyeing him.
The redhead leaned on the bar next to Wang, giving him a smirk like a loaded pistol.
"Well damn, I saw what you did out there, tiger," she purred. "You turned that psycho into red pudding."
The girl with braids giggled. "He didn't even move. I swear you scrambled his fuckin' soul."
Wang blinked, caught off guard. He scratched the back of his head. "Uh… yeah. Thanks. He asked for it."
Red grinned and dragged a nail along the edge of his cybernetic arm. "You ever use this thing for… other stuff?"
Wang opened his mouth to respond—somewhere between clever and awkward—but didn't get the chance.
"Ladies," Rocky's gravelly voice cut in as he shoved his way between them like a bouncer crashing a Tinder date.
"Did I hear someone talking about red pudding?" he said, leering a little too obviously. "Because I'm feelin' like a whole dessert platter tonight."
The girls blinked, looked at each other, then smiled.
"Ohhh," said Red, tilting her head. "A silver fox. We like silver foxes."
The one with braids licked her lips. "You buying drinks, gramps?"
Wang gave a slow blink. Jesus Christ.
Rocky was already waving over the bartender. "Four shots of top-shelf, two bourbons, and give 'em the stuff with the gold flakes in it. We're celebrating!"
Wang muttered, "Bro, that's like half your winnings."
Rocky didn't hear. Or didn't care.
The girls giggled as Rocky threw his arms around them and toasted loudly, "To violence and pussy! The only things that make life worth livin'!"
Wang watched, dumbfounded, as shot after shot disappeared down Rocky's throat. The girls took dainty sips, kept laughing, kept flattering—kept ordering. The bartender didn't even blink as Rocky dropped sweaty bills like confetti.
An hour later, Rocky was a goddamn mess.
He was slumped against the wall, legs sprawled, face flushed, shirt unbuttoned halfway down to his belly, singing a barely-intelligible version of AC/DC's "TNT", replacing half the words with curses.
The two girls?
Gone. Slipped out the second the free booze stopped flowing. One of them might've lifted his wallet, but considering Rocky blew most of it already, there wasn't much left to steal.
Wang crouched down next to him, waving a hand in front of his face. "You alive?"
Rocky burped, eyes half-lidded. "I fink… I fink they loved me. Like… really loved me, man…"
"You just bought them ten drinks and tried to show one your nipple."
"I got… nice nipples…"
Wang sighed.
A man nearby laughed. "Old guy's gonna piss himself if you leave him here."
Wang stood up and cracked his neck. "Yeah, yeah, I fuckin' got him."
It took everything he had to hoist Rocky's deadweight onto his back. The old bastard groaned and mumbled something about how the world was spinning, then slumped against Wang like a giant sack of sweaty laundry.
The bar crowd barely noticed as Wang carried him out the front door, past the flashing neon and the fight chants. The night air hit them like a slap—cool and humid, thick with engine grease and cigarette smoke.
"Goddamn it, Rocky," Wang muttered as he walked. "One win. One fuckin' win and you go full frat boy."
Rocky snored into his shoulder.
"You know," Wang grunted as they passed a busted streetlight, "I could've talked to those girls. They wanted to talk to me."
"Mmmh… Wang… yer like a son to me…"
"Fuck off."
The walk home took twenty minutes.
By the time Wang reached Rocky's place—a squat concrete dump next to an abandoned petrol station—his back felt like it was gonna split. He kicked open the rusted door and dumped Rocky unceremoniously onto the couch, where the man groaned, rolled over, and immediately started snoring again.
Wang stood there, panting, arms aching.
He looked around the room—bottles, cigarette butts, torn magazines, and gym gear scattered across every flat surface.
"You're lucky I respect you," Wang muttered. "Otherwise I'd leave your ass on the street with a 'free to good home' sign."
Rocky snorted in his sleep. "M'money's in the other sock drawer…"
Wang shook his head, half-smiling.
Fking idiot.
Still… he was his idiot.
Q: Have you been to a bar before?