The scent of bleach mingled with the sting of cheap whiskey in the back room.
Rof was perched on a cold, metal folding chair, his hands encased in ice packs. His eyes were fixed on a burly man sporting glittering gold teeth. His name was Bellows, the overseer of the tournament's finances. He was far from pleased.
"Your performance wasn't a boxing match," Bellows declared, a toothpick dancing between his teeth. "It was a glorified bar brawl. You violated the rules."
Rof blinked. "We had rules?"
Bellows leaned in closer, his breath reeking of onions. "The rule is simple: spectators pay to see talent, they pay to see a well-deserved bloodbath. Your lucky throat-punch that sent Tank to the hospital was anything but. Do you understand what Tank was?"
"A tough opponent?" Rof ventured.
"An investment," Bellows retorted. "Tank was an investment. People wagered on him. His name was known. You? You're a nobody. No one enjoys betting on a nobody."
Rof shrugged, the ice around his knuckles sending a chill down his spine. "I just need my winnings. Ten million. You promised the winner"
"The winner who takes the tournament," Bellows interjected, his laughter devoid of any warmth. "You've only won a single match. You'll get five thousand. Take it or leave it."
Five thousand.
Rof did some mental math. He was never a numbers guy, but he knew five thousand wouldn't be enough to cure his father's cough, or to save the factory. It wouldn't be enough to change anything.
"I need more," Rof said.
"In that case, you'll have to fight again." Bellows got to his feet, his squat, wide frame serving as an imposing wall. "Your next match is in three days. Against someone with real expertise. Win that, and maybe you're not just lucky. Maybe you have potential."
Rof looked down at his hands. His knuckles were bruised and swollen, discolored with patches of purple. He thought of his father's trembling fingers struggling to button up his shirt.
"I'll fight," he agreed.
Bellows grinned, his golden teeth glinting under the harsh light. "Good lad. There's a medic waiting outside. He'll patch you up. Can't sell a damaged good."
The doctor was a young Asian man with oversized glasses. He looked out of place in the blood-soaked warehouse.
"Sit down," the doctor instructed, motioning towards a plastic chair beside a folding table laden with medical supplies.
Rof obeyed. The chair groaned under his weight.
The doctor examined Rof's jaw, which bore the brunt of Tank's punch. Rof remained stoic.
"You're built tough," the doctor acknowledged. "Tank fractured a man's skull last month. Your jaw is merely bruised."
"Lucky me."
The doctor paused, his gaze locked onto Rof's eyes. Not the bruises, but something hidden deep within.
"During the fight," the doctor began, "did you feel... different?"
Rof stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"Your pupils. I watched the replay. Just before you struck, your pupils dilated. Almost as if you were under the influence of something. But you're clean. I tested your blood."
"I don't do drugs."
"I know." The doctor resumed cleaning Rof's cut lip. "But something shifted in your brain. Something quick. I've seen it before. In other fighters. Other... investments."
Rof clutched the doctor's wrist, not forcefully, just enough to make him stop.
"What do you mean by 'other'?"
The doctor remained calm, unflinching.
"Let go," he said gently.
Rof released him.
"Survive your next fight," the doctor advised. "Win. And then ask Bellows about the 'special bracket.' That's all I can say for now." He packed up his supplies. "And Rof? Keep the speed a secret. If they find out, they'll exploit you."
Before Rof could question him further, he was gone.
The parking lot outside was shrouded in darkness. Rof made his way towards the bus stop, his hoodie pulled up over his head, his hands buried in his pockets. His face was throbbing. His ribs were aching. The envelope containing five thousand dollars weighed both heavily and lightly in his pocket.
A sleek, black car pulled up beside him, the window rolling down.
"Get in," a voice commanded.
Rof continued walking.
"I said get in," the voice repeated, this time with a sharper edge. "Or I'll tell Bellows you declined medical treatment. You'll be disqualified from your next match. You won't receive a dime."
Rof stopped in his tracks and turned around.
The girl from the front row was sitting in the driver's seat. Her sharp gaze met his. A faint smile played on her lips. She looked younger up close hardly twenty but she carried an air of someone who had witnessed death.
"You were observing me," Rof stated. It wasn't an accusation, just an observation.
"I keep an eye on everyone," she replied. "You were the only one who seemed perplexed after winning. That makes you intriguing. Or perhaps just foolish. Get in the car. I'll take you home."
"I don't even know who you are."
"My name is Vera," she introduced herself, leaning against the steering wheel. Her smile diminished slightly. "And you, Rof Leon, are a stranger in a city that devours loners. So, your options are to either get in the car or walk straight into Bellows' next scheme, completely unprepared."
Rof glanced at the deserted bus stop.
He got in the car.
The car smelled of vanilla and gun oil. An odd combination. Vera drove with precision, neither rushing nor making unnecessary noise. She didn't look at him. She eyed the road as if it had wronged her.
"Why are you helping me?" Rof questioned.
"I didn't say I was helping," she corrected, steering the car around a corner. "I said I was intrigued. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
Vera halted at a red light. For the first time, she turned to look at him. Her eyes weren't blue, but a steely gray, reminiscent of a bleak winter sky.
"Help is given freely," she explained. "Interest comes with a price. You'll owe me. Not today, not tomorrow, but someday, you'll fight in a match I choose. You'll lose when I tell you to lose, or win when I need you to win. That's the price of my ride home."
Rof should've been frightened. It was only natural to be wary of strangers claiming ownership over you.
But Rof wasn't known for his intelligence.
"Okay," he agreed.
Vera laughed, the sound cut short by her surprise. "Just like that?"
"You have a car; I have nothing. Seems like a fair trade to me."
"You're an idiot," she said, though her smile never faded.
"Yeah," Rof admitted. "But I'm an idiot with five thousand dollars and a ride home. That's more than I had this morning."
She dropped him off at his father's trailer, not once asking for the address. Rof was too exhausted to question how she knew.
Before Rof stepped out of the car, Vera handed him a blank white card with just a phone number.
"Three days," she reminded him. "Your next fight. Your opponent is a man named Silas. He's nothing like Tank. He's quick, intelligent. He will fracture your ribs in the first round if you fight like you did tonight."
"How do you know all this?"
"Because I know Silas. I know everyone in this city who's willing to bleed for money." She glanced at the trailer. Rof's father could be seen through the window, hunched over in a coughing fit. Vera's expression remained unchanged. "Do you want to save him? Your father?"
"Yeah."
"Then don't be reckless in your next fight. Be dangerous." She rolled up the window. "Call me if you survive the first round."
The car sped off, leaving Rof alone in the dusty driveway, the card still clutched in his hand, watching the red taillights fade into the distance.
He entered the trailer. His father was asleep in his chair, his work shirt still unbuttoned. Rof left the envelope containing the money on the table. Five thousand. It wasn't enough, but it was a start.
He slid down the wall and sat on the floor, his eyes closing.
In the depths of his mind, something was stirring. The speed, the sudden surge the doctor had mentioned. The thing that had ignited when Tank had thrown that punch.
Rof didn't fully understand it, but he was beginning to crave it.
Not for the money.
Not for his father.
For the exhilarating sensation. The moment when the world shattered into fragments, and he could see every single shard.
He whispered to the silent room:
"I won't back down."
But this time, he wasn't certain if he was addressing the world.
Or the force that was growing within him.