From Best To Bested

Chapter One

“Our champion has done it again!” Warden Sadler announced as Roman brought down his second opponent for the night.

Both audiences roared as Roman strutted around the arena. Less an arena and more a pit. Not the actual Pit that Roman had heard rumors of, but the concrete floor was unforgiving to anyone unfortunate enough to fall. But as champion, Roman didn’t fall. He learned very quickly if he wanted to survive in Marlow Penitentiary and survive well, then he could never falter.

He kept his head held high for a moment, brushing a bandaged hand along his sweaty brow and knocking aside his shaggy brown bangs. This let the audience in the balcony above bask in Roman’s face, letting them see the pride he wore as their reigning champion. They were the wealthy elite who funded every corrupt machination at Marlow Penitentiary.

Inmates called them the Lawless Authority, an absurd name in Roman’s mind, but quicker than “rich snobs who indulged in illegal fights to satiate their own lust for bloodshed and crime,” which was basically the lawless component of their name. The authority came from the fact they dictated things in the arena, bankrolling winners, sponsoring events, paying to shut up anyone who annoyed them, and so much more Roman tried to avoid when it came to the audience in the balcony above.

The second audience was more of a crowd that circled him like vultures, held in check by the guards who attended the late-night rumbles. This group was honestly held more in check by Roman and his unrelenting show of dominance.

“You call that a challenge?” Roman roared, tightening the gauze on his right hand before pointing an indiscriminate finger at the crowd. “I thought you lot wanted to come for my title.”

The crowd had nearly a hundred inmates surrounding Roman from all sides. He ran the length of the makeshift arena, strutting close to the inmates and demanding a new challenger with his gaze. When that didn’t work, he taunted them again.

“Is this all you offer?” Roman pointed to his unconscious opponent. “Have you all really just given up?”

In order to maintain the role of champion, he needed to defend his title, and the authority above favored him when he won consecutive lineups during the Challenger’s Chance, an open mic, so to speak, for opponents to face Roman Grayson.

Most of the inmates here had fought and lost against Roman at least once. Few came down here just to watch, though some prioritized the stakes of the winning pots over the combat itself. Roman didn’t care about the profit. Yes, he savored every penny thrown into his commissary, and every dollar added to his off-the-books account controlled by the warden himself, but what Roman wanted when he stepped into the arena was the power that came with his title.

At twenty-two, he felt more powerful than anyone else here, but sometimes, he still remembered the frightened twenty-year-old college kid who’d nearly left the world of violence behind him. Roman thought about the years he spent at university, the fighting days he put behind him after he learned he’d never go pro, the illusion of a real future with a career in whatever he wanted, the chances of leaving shit like this behind him, and then remembered it only took one fucking mistake to ruin everything.

Champions didn’t make mistakes. They couldn’t afford it. He couldn’t and wouldn’t allow it.

That was why he never wavered as champion. A weak champion, one too afraid to face his foes, would be dealt with outside the arena in an empty corridor with a guard who turned the other way. A cocky champion, one too brazen with competition, would end up face-first on the concrete. It took everything Roman had to maintain some semblance of a balance. It kept inmates in line, kept them off his back, kept them away from as many of the young men, the elderly men, and generally anyone too weak or na?ve or pathetic to protect themselves.

Roman didn’t care to be a hero—not that folks lined up to call him such things—life had beaten that out of him years ago. But he didn’t like cruelty for the sake of being vicious, and his reign as champion at least kept the worst of it out of Marlow Penitentiary. He didn’t delude himself into thinking everyone wanted to hold hands and thank Roman for his valiant efforts, but he knew after breaking a few jaws and reminding the world he was the strongest motherfucker here that it helped others breathe a bit easier.

“Come on,” Roman shouted, adding a taunting edge to his voice. “Is there anyone bold enough to step up during the Challenger’s Chance?”

He ran the length of the audience, walking in circles, stepping close to inmates, daring them to strike. Sometimes, he could tease a member into a blitz attack. No one fought fair in life—a lesson Roman carried for years before he ended up incarcerated—so he encouraged the behavior when directed toward him. Roman could take it. Roman could take anything anyone threw at him. He could stand tall and beat down any threat. He could survive and hold his title because that was how Roman stayed safe.

“I will!”

Roman smirked, turning around to take in the sight of his final opponent for the night.

Maxwell fucking King.

“ They planned this well, ” Roman thought, taking a deep breath.

He’d pissed around overexerting himself during the first two matches of the night, and now the gangs had plucked Maxwell King to finish off the Challenger’s Chance, which was open for anyone to compete and dare to take the champion’s title. Maxwell was 6’8” and nearly a foot taller than Roman, who hovered an inch or two below 6’0” depending on how much leeway he gave himself on measurements. Maxwell also had biceps thicker than Roman’s neck and was built like a fucking Mack truck.

The title of champion came with a double-edged sword. Everyone fell in line to obey Roman’s will; it afforded protection in the form of fear to him and anyone he wanted to protect, but it also opened Roman up to enemies everywhere. Most were too frightened to make a move on him, in or out of the arena, but they all waited with bated breath for his defeat.

Until Roman Grayson arrived at Marlow Penitentiary, the role of champion had never lasted more than two months. Roman had held onto the title for over a year. Almost fifteen months now, and he accepted at least three challenges during the weekly events, sometimes adding a second or third fight night in a week depending on the season, and he never once lost.

As Roman squared up against the man more than a foot taller with easily a hundred fifty pounds on him, Roman reminded himself the only way to stay on top was to never fucking lose.

Roman had faced Maxwell before in the arena. Roman also had the misfortune of facing Maxwell once outside the arena. Maxwell didn’t take his first loss well and tried to gut Roman inside the weight room, which also ended up being the solution to an armed blitz attack where Maxwell sought revenge. Roman had bashed Maxwell’s face in with a twenty-pound dumbbell and knew Maxwell held bitter resentment for Roman ever since, along with a crooked nose, five missing teeth, and an indent from the piece of his cheek they couldn’t restore.

But while Roman had exploited his surroundings during the attempted alleged assault—the warden’s words, not Roman’s—he didn’t have that luxury in the arena. If Roman wanted to beat Maxwell again, he had to fight him the same way he had the first time they crossed paths.

The difference being that Maxwell only saw a plucky dumb kid who got lucky to land champion the last time they faced off. Now, Maxwell knew what to expect when stepping into the arena against Roman, and Roman knew the terrible disadvantage that put him at during this official rematch.

With the ring of the bell and the roar of the crowd, Roman got to work. Immediately, he moved in for light strikes anywhere not packed with a mountain of muscle. In order to beat Maxwell, Roman had to rely on bug bites over bulldozer blows. Keeping his stamina in check, Roman remembered his breathing and weaved around Maxwell. One hit, one real punch, would knock the breath from his chest, and Roman couldn’t afford to give up any tiny edge he had. Maxwell would wear out first. As the man raged with powerful swings of his fists, Roman could already see the toll it took. Little by little, Roman let Maxwell whittle down his own reserves while Roman taunted him with futile strikes.

“I’m going to fucking kill you.” Maxwell nearly clocked Roman, stepping in closer than Roman anticipated and locking him against the crowd.

Roman ducked and rolled away, scrambling to his feet as Maxwell stomped behind him, determined to beat Roman while he crawled to safety. Maxwell’s boots slammed with loud bangs, the force of steel against concrete, and Roman realized the footwear had a bottom padding of metal to really ensure Maxwell would break Roman’s face with one swift kick.

The crowd wasn’t a safe place for Roman; they hated him as much as he hated them. He kept low to the ground, rolling away from Maxwell’s strikes as much as he avoided the danger of the crowd.

Once, in a show of stealth, Roman allowed himself to fall back into the protection of the audience when in a two-on-one match-up. Biggest mistake of his life. He still carried three scars on his left hip from the shiv someone used to level the fight against his favor. The warden hadn’t called things to an end during that match, and Roman knew he wouldn’t consider Maxwell’s boots an unfair advantage now.

Roman nearly made it to his feet when Maxwell knocked into him, and Roman rolled close to the crowd. Too close. Someone started kicking him in the ribs, knocking the breath out of his lungs. Roman didn’t have time to look at the coward who’d dared. Pick a number with this fucking group. No, Roman had already lost precious seconds and needed to escape Maxwell’s thunderous stomps.

He moved with such terrible force, Roman didn’t see a way out, a way to win, a way to avoid the heavy footsteps that sought to stomp Roman into the ground.

Maybe he didn’t have to avoid the inevitable. A terrible idea crossed Roman’s mind, and he hated himself a little for it. Any pain he felt seemed a fitting reward for his reckless strategy.

Unable to dodge, unable to get to his feet, Roman slid forward and punched Maxwell in the balls. The man’s boots weren’t the only thing made of steel, though. Roman had tried this strategy once before, only to find out Maxwell didn’t flinch, and just like last time, Maxwell smiled down at Roman’s foolishness and smacked him across the face.

The backhanded slap was less lethal than a punch, but Roman registered the reasoning. Maxwell wanted to shame Roman more than pummel him. He also needed Roman on his back, not slumped over and semi-conscious from a few punches. No, Maxwell wanted Roman to be fully awake and aware for what came next.

Without delay, Maxwell slammed his foot down into Roman’s chest and stole what little air he held onto. Roman screamed, unable to stifle the pain of the boot coming down on him. Again and again and again.

Maxwell put the full weight of his body into the crushing force of his foot. Roman didn’t resist, allowing Maxwell to feel the pressure of Roman’s chest, ready to collapse. His hands seemed like delicate things when gripped onto Maxwell’s massive foot. The man had smug satisfaction, pinning Roman beneath his heel and preparing to end him. He wouldn’t stop at Roman’s surrender. No, he’d want Roman’s submission; he’d want Roman to admit his weakness when faced with pure unstoppable dominance.

“You’re almost as ugly as you are stupid.” Roman winked.

With that, it sent rage coursing through Maxwell as Roman anticipated, and when the man lifted his foot to give one more terrible and mighty stomp, Roman slipped his hands where he needed. Using everything he had, Roman twisted Maxwell’s foot and used his weight against him. Maxwell had been foolish, tipping his own balance when crushing Roman, and all Roman needed was to tilt the trajectory a little more.

Maxwell hit the concrete, and everything went silent for a moment. His fall created a literal quake as the towering giant had been felled.

Roman didn’t stop twisting just because Maxwell had tumbled forward and crashed to the ground. No. Roman didn’t stop twisting until something popped. When Maxwell screamed, Roman snatched off the man’s metal boot and straddled his chest as Maxwell struggled to roll over.

Roman slipped his hand into the boot and punched Maxwell in the face. When Maxwell roared, Roman punched him a second time. When Maxwell went feral, Roman punched him a third time. When the crowd booed, Roman punched Maxwell a fourth time. When Maxwell passed out, Roman got up and stalked toward one of the guards holding a line for the crowd. Some phony effort to keep order during the chaos of combat.

Roman punched him with the metal boot still over his fist. He removed the boot and let it drop next to the bloody and wheezing guard with a loud clank.

Instigating fights against the people in charge of his life had never been something Roman wavered with before or after his incarceration. It didn’t take long for Roman to learn which guards were good and which were on the take.

Roman knew which guards inmates could trust, he knew who would turn a blind eye during an assault, he knew who moved product, and he knew this guard had acquired the boots for Maxwell King.

“Enjoy your matching faces, you fucker.” Roman took heavy breaths, soaking in the roar of the crowd.

They might’ve hated him most of the time, but when they showed him love, it sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through him. It hit Roman with a high unlike anything he’d experienced. Roman loved these fleeting seconds, the wave of victory, the chant of loyalty, the calm afterglow of combat. He lived for these moments; he clawed at them.

“What a splendid victory,” Warden Sadler announced, either burying his resentment for Roman’s antics or truly not giving a fuck about the guard’s face. “What a glorious bout with the Challenger’s Chance. Our reigning champion has once again cemented his place at the top. Be sure to come back and see who the champion declares for the winter semi-match lineup.”

Roman took heavy breaths, still holding back his exhaustion and unwilling to let anyone here see how truly winded he was, but he studied the crowd. Part of being champion was having a hand in all the competitions, not only his own fights. Being champion meant taking on the responsibility of working closely with Warden Sadler, but Roman tired of that early on, finding the corrupt man a bigger headache than a champion should have to listen to.

“Is that really it?” someone shouted.

Only Roman heard it. Only Roman heard it because he always listened to the whispers between the roars, always prepared for the threats veiled beneath the cheers, always ready for any attack.

“You go a few rounds, and you’re done,” the person called out again.

This time, a few others heard, and this time, the crowd quieted some.

“Talk about staging the bullshit,” he said again, the stranger whose voice became more and more grating as it grew louder, and the audience became quieter.

Roman turned to face this loudmouth.

“Anyone here take bets on the big one falling?” An unfamiliar face appeared from the crowd, and the young guy pushed his way to the front. “I could’ve made a racket if I realized you were just playing pretend.”

“Nothing fake about this,” someone argued—someone likely friends with Maxwell and offended by the implications.

“I’m just saying,” the new guy continued. “Your champion set it up real good. Take out the biggest threat and then call it a night.”

“ That’s because no one else is here to challenge me, ” Roman thought, but he bit back his words, too exhausted for an argument or another fight.

“I’d like to step up.” The guy stretched his arms wide with confidence, awaiting a cheering crowd that didn’t follow. “I’ll take the Challenger’s Chance.”

Roman shrugged off the cheap taunting, not impressed or intimidated. He’d just taken down Maxwell King, who wore literal steel boots. There was no one who’d fall for some no-name’s feeble attempt at looking brave.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves another contender,” Warden Sadler announced, egging on the audience around Roman and the one who watched from above.

Masked figures studied Roman, and he sighed as the warden gave weight to this new face. As the champion, he could accept or decline any match-up. Too many rejections, and he’d look weak. Every part of Roman wanted to say no, but Warden Sadler kept applying pressure with his words, encouraging the audience to join in, and Roman felt the pressure.

Warden Sadler hated Roman and would honestly push Roman into a million back-to-back fights if he could swing it.

The warden used to force Roman to interact with the clientele on the balcony more frequently. They were the real authority in the arena. The inmates and guards might’ve hated Roman, and the warden might’ve despised Roman, but so long as Roman remained champion, he remained in favor of the money that kept everything here moving.

After shucking his responsibilities for far too long, Warden Sadler tried to force Roman to meet the authority above, private showings where they could fawn over the mighty inmate, the champion in the slums, the dirty fighter they would clean up.

Roman put an abrupt stop to those meetings. When Warden Sadler challenged him, Roman broke the man’s nose. When the warden tossed Roman in solitary for three weeks, Roman didn’t break. When Roman finally returned to the arena, both men came to an understanding.

The Lawless Authority loved Roman, and his sudden absence demanded an explanation. Warden Sadler couldn’t touch Roman so long as he remained champion, but Roman knew one misstep would be his demise.

“ Fuck it, ” Roman thought before he stepped into the center of the arena and waved over his foolish opponent.

If he could survive a rigged match against Maxwell King, he could hold his own against anyone else tonight. He wasn’t foolish, arrogant perhaps, too arrogant to shrug off the taunting, but smart enough to know to end the match quickly.

“What’s your name, buddy?” Roman asked with a cocky grin. “I like to know who I’m bending over.”

The laughter of the crowd made Roman’s insides twist with regret. Roman wouldn’t be bending this guy over; he didn’t bend anyone over. Prison rules mixed with hyper-masculinity didn’t offer Roman many choices when it came to feeding the beast of trash talk, though. It took everything Roman had as champion to put a stop to as many of the rapes around here as his clout offered. He still never stopped the screwing. Not that he wanted to. Live and let live, he didn’t give a fuck who anyone fucked. But he knew a pressured face lying to him when Roman would try to interject. Some men went so quietly and so willingly, Roman considered the ruling as champion a futile effort in a broken system. At least he tried more than the staff.

The young man stepped into the arena, taking off his shirt and shifting his stance to match Roman’s. From how he carried himself and the build of his body, Roman gathered he wasn’t a stranger to combat. He wasn’t as muscular as Roman, a bit leaner by the looks of it, but taller by a few inches. The sides of his head were shaved short, but the rest of his black hair was thick and styled in a sloppy fauxhawk, considering there was limited access to proper products, but the raised hair added to his height.

“Ezra Delgado,” his fourth opponent for the night responded. “But you can call me Champion.”

His deep bronze complexion was covered in faded tattoos and small scars, an indicator he was not afraid of a little pain. Roman’s own pale skin lacked tattoos, but his fresh bruises for the night had an almost humorously matching pattern to Ezra’s ink.

“Oh, I like you.” Roman would keep an eye on Ezra after he knocked some sense into him tonight.

Young guys like him, ones that didn’t walk in with an immediate bond to a gang or family behind bars, often found themselves at the mercy of the cruel. Roman knew from experience that mouthy motherfuckers had to defend themselves more often or learn to shut the fuck up.

Something about Ezra suggested he didn’t quiet down just because a threat towered toward him. Roman respected that.

Warden Sadler announced the match, and Roman went to work evaluating Ezra. It didn’t take long to figure out Ezra moved as quickly as Roman, something two quick jabs to the face taught him. He favored his left side, so Roman did his best to skirt around on Ezra’s right. That tactic only offered Roman a few breaths between blows.

Eventually, Roman and Ezra found themselves in a steady back-and-forth. Roman let Ezra lead the fight, using the time to catch his breath and look for patterns. Once he got a good gauge for things, Roman moved in fast, faster than Ezra’s eyes could track. Roman was exhausted, but he had more than enough stamina to hold out.

A few swift punches changed the direction of the match, and soon, it was Ezra intently backing away, falling short of escaping Roman’s reach and trying to study the move sets. Roman learned long ago to never leave a trail to follow. He changed his tactics, pulling Ezra back into stalking forward. When Ezra resisted, Roman taunted with some well-placed and painful punches. Anger often gave way to strategy, and Roman used that to pull Ezra into his defeat.

“How long you been here?” Roman asked, taking a lucky shot from Ezra, but only so he could knock him squarely in the chest.

“First day.” Ezra winced, regretting the back step as his footing stumbled.

“No way.” Roman weaved around Ezra and punched him in the right side with enough force to knock the wind out of his lungs. “First day, and you managed to slip down here.”

Roman baited Ezra with a few more questions, enjoying the conversation and noting how easy it was to feed off the guy’s energy. The more Roman caught his second wind—well, more like his seventh wind at this point—the more Ezra struggled to keep up.

It didn’t take much longer before Roman had knocked Ezra off his feet and sent him crashing into the concrete. Ezra struggled to move, his hands shaky on the ground. Roman leaned in, a bit to taunt his opponent, a bit to rile the last of the fight left in him. Ezra swiped, then faltered, and returned his hand to keep from collapsing entirely.

“Nice moves,” Roman said mockingly, but he held genuine respect for the boldness.

Roman had waited nearly two months after his arrival at Marlow Penitentiary before daring to step down into the arena. He waited another month before stepping into his first match. It’d been nearly six months before he was bold enough to make for the Challenger’s Chance and challenge the former champion.

“Catch your breath, kid,” Roman said as if he were some sage old man.

Truthfully, he and Ezra looked about the same age. Hell, Ezra might’ve even had a year or two on him. Still, with the man stumbling and panting for desperate breaths as his entire body trembled, Roman couldn’t help but feel he looked down at a desperate, young kid. Roman recalled being that young, that sloppy, years before his incarceration, years before he found his way out of the darkness of his life, not that he got very far considering where he stood now.

Ezra had great moves, natural skills, but he was sloppy. When this was finished, Roman would help train Ezra.

Roman turned to the crowd, raising his arms and demanding their cheers. The authority above applauded, and the inmates below shouted. Everyone wanted blood. Demanded it. Roman let them rage, let them roar, and he did his best to think of the best way to knock Ezra out so it’d make everyone’s night without completely ruining Ezra’s.

Roman turned to face Ezra one final time and found he’d vanished. Too quick and silent for someone in his winded condition.

A pain crashed against the back of Roman’s head, and the realization of his hubris hit almost as hard as the fist.

The collapse had been a feint to catch Roman off guard, and he’d fallen for it too. He’d walked right into Ezra’s trap, left himself exposed because of his own fucking ego.

Roman’s eyes went wide, caught in the chokehold and unable to break loose. Everything he did to knock himself into Ezra, to pivot the weight, to shift their stance, didn’t work. This didn’t happen to Roman. He didn’t move this carelessly. And if he did, if he found himself unable to breathe with an arm squeezing tight across his throat, he knew how to escape.

Every correct step failed him. It was as if Ezra predicted Roman’s escape attempts, contorting his body to lean into Roman’s failed efforts to break loose. Roman bucked against the pressure, against the growing weight of Ezra’s body, as his footing finally gave way.

Roman landed face-first on the ground, and the rush of blood startled him awake as the tightening noose around his throat carried shadows across his vision.

Roman fought harder, taking what shreds of conserved strength remained, and worked to flip out of Ezra’s grasp. A standing break would be easier. The ground worked against him, and Ezra seemed to team up with gravity to pin Roman in place. Instinct told Roman to flail, to scream, to panic as everything went red.

Red from fury. Red from blood. Red from fear-soaked shame.

It hurt, it nearly broke him, but Roman finally gained the tiniest bit of leverage and sucked in a desperate breath. He took a second breath to beat back the gnawing shadows that pulled him into the void of slumber. If he passed out, it was over. Roman had to properly break free.

Ezra slipped his thighs around Roman’s waist during the scuffle, during the near escape on Roman’s part. Once he had a solid grip, Ezra spun around, slammed on his own back so Roman was stuck on top, his stomach stretched tight as Ezra’s legs held Roman’s bottom half in place, and Ezra’s arm squeezed tighter around Roman’s throat. Ezra pulled so hard, Roman believed his head might pop off like a fucking doll.

Using his elbows, Roman tried to knock Ezra in the ribs, then his fists to punch Ezra in the face, but to no avail. Ezra used his legs to control the sway of their motions, both men looking like a turtle on its back. Roman’s elbows beat into the concrete ground more than with their target, and his fists never landed enough force on Ezra’s face to break his hold.

With his free hand, Ezra punched Roman in the ribcage. His strikes hit hard, the target completely unobstructed. The first punch radiated with pain, spreading across Roman’s entire body. A desperate and exhausted body. The second punch knocked out what little precious air Roman clung to. The third punch put an end to Roman’s elbowing. The fourth made Roman’s legs give out entirely. The fifth made his arms surrender.

Roman wouldn’t surrender, though. He shouted, feral and furious. He was a beast. He was the champion. He didn’t surrender, he didn’t submit, he didn’t fucking lose.

The sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth punches knocked the voice out of Roman.

Darkness came for him, but Roman pleaded and begged and fought against it. Even if his body betrayed him, even if the universe turned against him, Roman tried to move. He balled a fist. One fist. One fist, as if it’d do anything against the arm still strangling him, as if it’d do anything against the legs squeezing him tight, as if it’d do anything against the other fist still punching him again and again.

He’d lost track of the hits. The world turned hazy. The roar of the crowd became faint. Their cheers grew louder the weaker Roman became. He knew they cheered for his defeat. He knew they celebrated the champion’s reign coming to an end. He knew they’d come for him now that he’d fallen. They’d come for everything he secured at Marlow Penitentiary.

As darkness squeezed the last bit of life out of him, he plummeted from the heavens and crashed into the earth. Roman dreamed of monsters chasing him from every direction. They cackled at his demise. They clawed at his flesh. They pinned him to the hard forest ground and demanded blood.