Tara emerged from her bedroom.
Hoshimi sat on the couch, his hands folded in his lap, his violet eyes fixed on the window. The plants on the sill cast long shadows across the yellow walls, and the city hummed its evening song beyond the glass.
"So are we going right now or not?" Tara's voice was different.
He turned.
Black pants, a dark jacket, boots that looked sturdy. Her ginger hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, not a single strand out of place and her golden eyes were sharp.
"You look more different than usual," he said.
"We're going somewhere different after all." She crossed to the door, pulled on a pair of gloves. "You should stay close to me and don't talk to anyone unless I say it's okay. And if anyone asks anything about you, you're with me."
She opened the door. The hallway beyond was dark, the flickering light on the second floor finally dead. The stairwell smelled of mildew and old cigarette smoke.
They descended in silence.
It was night.
The neon signs were brighter, painting the streets in shades of pink and blue and electric green. The crowd's laughter was carrying an edge of desperation, the air smelled of grilled meat and spilled beer and something else.
Tara led him through streets he didn't recognize, past buildings that seemed to lean toward each other. Then the neighborhood changed, the shops became shuttered and the people became fewer. The neon faded to darkness.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Where you said you wanted to go."
She stopped in front of a building. It was unremarkable, the warehouse sat at the edge of the harbor district, its windows boarded, its loading docks chained, its facade covered in layers of graffiti that had been painted over so many times they'd become an abstract canvas of gray and black.
The only light came from a single bulb hanging above a steel door, its glow barely penetrating the evening gloom.
"There's a basement," Tara said. "The owner doesn't like attention. He pays off the right people, looks the other way when they need him to." She glanced at him. "You're sure about this?"
"I'm sure."
"The entrance is through the back," she said quietly. "There's a guard. Don't look him in the eye. Don't speak unless spoken to."
Hoshimi nodded. His new clothes felt stiff and unfamiliar. The jacket was far too warm for the weather, but he'd refused to leave it behind.
They walked around the building, past dumpsters overflowing with rotting food and past stacked pallets of bricks. The back alley was narrower and darker, the walls seemed as if they were pressing in on either side.
The guard was massive, his bulk filling the doorway like a wall of flesh and shadow. His face was obscured by a hood, but his eyes gleamed in the dim light, dark and flat and utterly without expression.
Tara approached him. Her posture was different now, looser, more confident. She moved like she belonged here, like she'd done this a hundred times before.
"He's with me," she said.
The guard's eyes swept over Hoshimi, lingering on his face, his eyes focusing on his hands, on the subtle tension in his shoulders and then he stepped aside.
The stairwell beyond was narrow, the stairs steep. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in shades of a sickly shade of yellow. The air itself was cold and damp, carrying the smell of concrete, sweat and something metallic.
Red.
The stairs opened into a cavernous space, the walls were lined with rough wooden benches. The floor was packed dirt, stained dark in place, a chain-link cage stood at the center, its floor stained dark.
Floodlights hung overhead, their bulbs seemed to have yellowed with age.
The place was still empty.
"We're early," Tara said. "The fights don't start for a few hours. But the owner is always here."
She led him across the concrete floor, past the cage, toward a door at the far end. The metal was scarred, the handle worn smooth.
"Enter."
The room beyond was small, cluttered with papers and old monitors and the detritus of a life lived in shadows.
A man sat behind the desk. He was large, his frame straining against a cheap suit, his face marked with scars. His hair was gray, his eyes dark, and his smile was the worst thing about him.
"Tara." His voice was gravelly, scraped raw by years of shouting over crowds. "Long time."
"Anton." She nodded at Hoshimi.
His voice was soft, almost gentle. "It's been a while."
"I need a favor."
"A favor." He tasted the word, rolled it around his mouth like something sweet. "You already owe me quite a lot of favors."
"I know."
"And yet you come back."
Tara's jaw tightened. Hoshimi could see it, the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands had curled into fists at her sides.
"This is Hoshimi," she said. "He needs work."
The man's dark eyes shifted to him. "He's rather young."
"He can fight."
"Can he?" The man leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. "I've heard that before. We can't have someone who isn't able to fight, no one would even watch it." He paused. "But you wouldn't bring me a liability, would you, Tara? You're too smart for that."
"He's good."
"We'll see." The man stood, his movements slow and deliberate. He circled the desk, stopped in front of Hoshimi.
Up close, he was even larger, his presence filling the small room like smoke.
"I'm going to be honest with you," he said. "Tara owes the boss a lot of money. More than she'll ever make working a normal job. She's been paying the business back in installments, but at this rate..." He shrugged. "She'll be paying boss back for the rest of her life."
"I can fight."
Anton's smile didn't waver. He let his hand fall back to his side. "Tara tells me you can fight. I'm willing to give you a chance, but there are conditions."
"What conditions?"
"You fight tonight. If you win, we'll talk about a longer arrangement. If you lose..." He glanced at Tara. "Her debt increases. For every fight you lose."
"T-that's not what we agreed," Tara said.
"We're not agreeing to anything, I'm offering terms. You can accept them or you can leave." He spread his hands. "The choice is yours."
Tara's face was pale. Her hands were shaking. She looked at Hoshimi, her golden eyes wide with something that might have been fear or might have been hope.
"Don't," she said quietly. "I-I changed my mind, w-we can find another way, yeah, we can definite-"
"How much do you owe him?"
"That's not-"
"How much?"
She was silent for a moment. Then: "Three hundred thousand."
"You've been paying him for how long?"
"Five years."
"And how much have you paid?"
"More than double that. The interest..." She shook her head. "It never goes down. Every time I think I'm close, he keeps adding fees."
"And you kept paying."
"What else could I do?"
Hoshimi looked at Anton. At his cheap suit and his scarred face and his soft, terrible smile. At the monitors on his desk showing the empty cage, the empty benches, the empty room.
"How much of the debt is real?" he asked.
Anton's smile widened. "What do you mean?"
"The original loan. How much was it?"
"Twenty thousand."
"She's never going to pay it off," Hoshimi said.
"No," Anton agreed. "She's not."
Tara's face went white. "You-"
"I'm a businessman, Tara. I provide a service. Be glad that I even lended you money when you were homeless." He shrugged. "There are other ways to settle debts."
"What other ways?"
Anton's dark eyes slid to Hoshimi. He walked back around his desk, lowered himself into his chair, the springs groaned beneath his weight. "Fine. We'll do it your way, the boy fights tonight. If he wins then we'll talk." He looked at Tara. "You know what happens if he loses."
"Agreed."
Tara's head snapped toward him. "Hoshimi-"
"It'll be fine."
"You don't know that."
He turned to Anton. "Where do I sign?"