The warehouse took on a different persona at nightfall. The building itself, the chain-link fencing, the dimmed lights, and the lingering scent of blood and cigarette smoke remained unchanged. However, the crowd had swelled up significantly. Word about Tank's defeat had spread like wildfire through the whispers and phone calls in the clandestine circles, and through the exchange of money in dimly lit parking lots. The people were eager to see the underdog who had taken down Tank.
They were also there for Silas.
In fact, if they admitted it, most of them were there primarily for Silas.
Rof found himself standing in the back corridor, his hands bandaged and his cross necklace tucked under his shirt to prevent it from being a hindrance in the fight. Vera was there too, not necessarily talking or touching him, but her presence was a comfort in itself.
Bellows, his gold teeth glinting, sweat dotting his forehead and clipboard in hand, waddled over to them.
"Leon, we've got a pretty big crowd tonight. If you lose in the first round, it's going to cost me," he warned.
"I understand," Rof responded.
Bellows scrutinized him, "Tank was a prized fighter and you took him down. Silas is another one of my star products. He's more expensive. If you manage to defeat Silas, it will either benefit you or me. But if you're defeated within thirty seconds like everyone else, you'll get your five thousand and I won't want to see your face again."
He looked at Rof's face and then at his hands. "Nervous?"
"No," Rof replied.
Bellows studied him for a moment. "That's either very brave or very foolish of you."
"Probably both," Rof conceded.
With a shake of his head, Bellows walked away.
Vera finally broke her silence. "Don't respond when he starts talking. The moment you answer, he knows he's got to you. Silence is your best defense."
"I know."
"Rof."
He turned to look at her.
Her gray eyes held a steady gaze. There was something in them - not quite warmth but something akin to it.
"You don't have to win," she said seriously, "You just have to show me who you are. That's what tonight is about."
He nodded in understanding.
The bell signalling the start of the match rang.
Silas was already in the ring.
He stood motionless in his corner, hands at his sides. He wasn't bouncing on the balls of his feet, or shadow boxing, or showing signs of readiness. He was simply standing there, still as a statue, like a man waiting for a bus. His gaze locked onto Rof the moment he climbed through the ropes and didn't waver.
The noise from the crowd dulled to a murmur. It wasn't silence - this crowd never fell silent - but it was a noticeable reduction. It was as if even those who were clueless about what was taking place could sense the gravity of the moment.
Rof positioned himself in his corner, his gaze locked onto Silas.
Silas returned his stare.
Thirty seconds, Rof thought. He starts probing in thirty seconds.
The bell rang again.
They moved towards each other.
Silas approached slowly, calculatedly. He threw two jabs at Rof's guard, light taps, testing the waters. His eyes never left Rof's. His hands were communicating while his face was reading Rof's reactions.
Rof moved to his left, his hands up, maintaining a standard guard.
Fifteen seconds passed.
Silas delivered a swift right hook, landing on Rof's forearm in a textbook perfect move. He immediately retreated, processing the information he had gleaned from his move.
Twenty-five seconds.
Rof could feel Silas sizing him up. He couldn't see it, but it felt like someone taking his photograph, reducing him to a piece of information.
Thirty seconds.
Silas stopped moving.
A barely perceptible shift crossed his face. It was almost invisible, but Rof had been watching closely.
He looked puzzled.
In a fraction of a second, the look of confusion was replaced with his professional mask. But Rof had caught it.
He can't find a pattern, Rof realized. He's thirty seconds in and there's nothing to read.
Then Silas spoke.
His words were low and only audible to Rof. His voice was almost gentle, which made his words all the more chilling.
"She left when you were nine," Silas said, moving closer. "Your mother. Middle of winter. You came home from school and the closet was empty. Your father was sitting in the kitchen, silent. You blamed yourself for six years, didn't you?"
Rof didn't respond.
Silas threw a combination of three punches, swift and technical. Two of them hit their mark, and Rof felt a surge of pain behind his eye.
"Six years of a nine-year-old carrying that," Silas continued in the same calm voice, "That's a long time. Does it still—"
"She took me to a research lab when I was five," Rof interrupted him.
He hadn't planned to say it. It just slipped out.
Silas fell silent.
For an enormous second, he froze.
That was all Rof needed.
He moved in.
He didn't think. He didn't try. He let his mind retreat to the place he had been practicing - the quiet, the complete focus - and this time, the world didn't shatter.
This time, it unfolded.
Like a map being unfurled. Silas's shoulder dropped slightly. His weight shifted fractionally to his left heel. His chin lifted a centimeter as he recalculated his strategy. All of it was visible, all of it was readable, all of it seemed to happen in slow motion.
Rof's right hand came from low. It wasn't a textbook move. It wasn't elegant. But it was precise - a straight punch to the body, right below the ribs, exactly where a man's breath originates.
Silas flinched. It was a tiny, almost invisible, reaction.
But Rof felt it. The give. The human give.
There's the ceiling, he thought.
He stepped back, allowed Silas to regain his composure.
Silas looked at him, really looked at him. For the first time since the bell had rung, the analytical distance was gone.
He was just a man in a ring.
Staring at something he hadn't expected to find.
The crowd was screaming, but Rof couldn't hear it. All he could perceive was the ring, Silas's eyes, and the terrifying awakening of something within him.
He quickly touched the cross through his shirt in a private moment.
Then, he raised his hands.
And advanced.