Anatoly Letov was, to everyone, just an ordinary teacher. He taught children at school and graded papers at home. He never really had a personal life, and his public one…
The students didn't like him much—Anatoly demanded solid knowledge. Of course, there were some who respected a man who understood his subject (and teaching in general), but they were the minority. Girls didn't pay attention to him, and he, it seemed, deliberately distanced himself from the opposite sex with thick glasses and a bunch of shapeless blazers that, to be fair, fit him quite well.
His fellow teachers were satisfied with Anatoly but didn't talk to him much. He was a quiet and uncommunicative man. "Withdrawn," as the female teachers would say when the topic came up. Always thinking about something, but if asked directly "what about?", he'd get embarrassed and change the subject. Surprisingly, he didn't remain a mystery to the staff—they simply stopped bothering him.
And yet, the man had a hobby.
Sometimes it's like this—you've known someone for a long time but have no idea what they're into. And when you find out, your attitude slowly starts to change, depending on whether you like their hobby or not.
And Anatoly Romanovich Letov was into fighting…
Yes, that was the interest of this seemingly unremarkable high school math teacher. And not just sports or martial arts like boxing or karate, but ordinary, even vulgar, street fights. The man privately referred to them as battles.
He couldn't say exactly when it started. One day, he simply thought about how he wanted to hit someone. Whether it was because of his wife leaving him for a lover or his son becoming a junkie, Anatoly couldn't say. One moment he just punched a guy in a bar.
He was drunk and probably in the wrong, but he didn't intend to let the insult (he couldn't even remember which one exactly) slide, so he started a fight. And that fight turned into a real brawl…
When he came home afterward—sober and thoroughly beaten—he decided that he liked it. That he had found something he genuinely enjoyed: fighting! Not just beating on the weak (like some school bullies do) or getting battered by the strong (like masochists), but clashing with an opponent (preferably worthy and equal), fearing defeat!
But in our world, not everyone is fond of such entertainment…
He was too well-mannered and cultured to go around town beating people up, so he, like any normal person, signed up for boxing. The sport filled his forty-year-old body with energy, made him feel young again, but… his soul wanted more.
He quit the gym and got into another fight, this time at a gas station.
Seeing that his passion hadn't gone anywhere but had only grown stronger, Anatoly signed up for karate. Once again, his body got a boost, but his soul remained unsatisfied.
"All of this is just toys," he told his coach, adjusting his glasses. "On the street, someone comes at you—they'll knock you out fast. You won't even get into a stance."
And when the amused black belt—young and athletic, a man who taught others his art—asked for a demonstration of a "street fight," promising no consequences for the "teacher," Anatoly obliged. He took off his glasses and threw them in the coach's face, and when the man reflexively blocked the unexpected attack from this surprisingly decisive fellow, Anatoly punched him in the ear. Then in the stomach. Then between the legs. Then kicked the downed man a few times—gently, remembering that the guy had to work with kids that day. No serious injuries, but it hurt. A teacher truly captivated by brawling, Anatoly knew what he was doing.
Next came a "real" street fight that blew away the boredom caused by endlessly repeating dumb punches that could barely land. Boxing had more practical strikes, but where were the kicks? As for wrestling—he didn't even bother. Decided it wasn't for him.
Then came a string of experiments: army hand-to-hand combat, kickboxing, hell—even wrestling, pankration, muay thai. The last one, by the way, turned out to be pretty decent, and it was during muay thai that the teacher, now well-known in his small town's fighting circles, realized his mistake.
Too few opponents.
What kind of battle is it if it's one-on-one? And unarmed at that. All the techniques he had studied and adopted wouldn't work well against more than one or two people. And if they had weapons… Sure, army hand-to-hand and others had techniques for dealing with armed opponents. Armed with kitchen knives…
But there's no technique against a crowbar.
So Anatoly frowned, unsure of what else to try. Traveling to another city just for his hobby (which he considered fighting to be) was silly. Quitting his job and joining the special forces was also silly—if only because he actually liked his job (which was surprising in itself). In three years of jumping between martial arts, the man's body had become a fine anatomical specimen, and his well-honed, very diverse skills would've done many pro fighters proud.
The teacher's dilemma was solved quite unexpectedly.
One day, walking home from work lost in thought, he was ambushed by a tenth-grade student and his friends. About five of them, no more.
"Anatoly Romanovich, this ain't fair," his student declared boldly.
"I can't afford to repeat the year, and your subject is in the way."
"You've got a pile of other failing grades, Frolov," Anatoly said, surprising the boys by not being afraid at all. "Go deal with those first. And send your friends home. This is no time for this nonsense. Exams are coming!"
"Exactly," the boy smirked, stepping closer and reeking of booze and cigarettes. "Exams are coming, and here you are hesitating like a chick. Just give me a passing grade and we'll be done."
"Watch your tone, Frolov," the teacher frowned.
The student's buddies laughed together, and Frolov swung wide (too wide—one push would've knocked him down, if timed right. His arm wasn't straight enough—should've angled it about… twenty degrees) and punched the teacher, thinking he really put his all into it.
The five guys didn't even surround him—just stood in front, scaring off pedestrians with their looks and keeping them at a distance. The teacher would surrender now. He'd bow down. He'd get on his knees and beg not to be hit. And if he so much as flinched, they'd send him straight to the hospital.
That's what they thought.
But the teacher, quickly calculating the number of moves he needed and sketching out a rough battle plan in his mind, smiled with anticipation and took off his glasses.
"Noted. You've refused a peaceful solution," he sighed theatrically and lunged at the young men.
Had he been ten years younger, or if one of the opponents had suddenly disappeared—he would've won with no contest. But what's the point of a victory that comes with no risk?
Anatoly knew full well that he'd have problems the next day, even in the best-case scenario, but he couldn't help himself. It had been a month since his last fight, and both body and soul were craving a "meal."
Anatoly's neighbor, walking home from the store, saw a shocking scene. Her neighbor—a respectable, middle-aged man (the very image of a teacher)—was fighting five strong young men! And how he fought!
He threw quick, heavy punches, not always aiming carefully, but hitting where it mattered. He took blows in return (hard not to when fighting five people), but each hit only made his grin wider! As if he weren't a man at all, but a beast!
And he was winning, clearly. Two were already down and couldn't get up again. A third would fall soon. And against two, he'd manage.
Anatoly's neighbor could only let out a thin shriek when she saw one of the downed boys pick up a red brick from the ground.
That shriek distracted the man from the fight, breaking his focus for a split second as he calculated his final moves…
And then, darkness came.