Chapter 24 Ares
Ares
Ares wishes someone would just punch him already.
He can feel the compulsion crawling along his skin like an itch, the desire to be hurt, to be hurt so badly he can stop thinking.
Forget the wounded, betrayed look on Chanel’s face at the lake tonight, how she’d walked away without glancing back at him.
She’s always been so composed, every word and action calculated, laughing as if nothing in the world could ever affect her.
But he’d seen her composure slip. Heard the shakiness in her voice.
Will you go to prom with me?
You’re rejecting me?
Why can’t you?
The bell rings, the crowds of the fight club come alive with bloodlust, stamping their feet, and Ares pushes his way forward
into the ring, relieved that it’s finally happening.
The tension in the air is palpable as he takes his place before a man his father’s age.
In his peripheral vision, he can make out the faces of his spectators from the shadows.
Suspicion. Distrust. Outright disdain. After Chanel had showed up the other night, he’d sworn to them that he hadn’t known she would be coming, that she was merely a classmate who must’ve tailed him out of curiosity, that it would never happen again.
Despite his insistence, he’d worried that because he’d let her run away, the Cave wouldn’t let him back in.
But then Sangui had informed him of the final match happening tonight, with the same instructions as usual.
Make sure you win.
If he wins this round, he’ll be the final victor. He’ll get to meet Long Ge at last, get to save his brother. That’s the part he has to focus on now, not the shine of tears in Chanel’s eyes when he’d turned her down—
His opponent rushes him, fists swinging.
The first punch lands just as Ares had hoped it would. An astounding burst of pain to his temple, so violent his vision flashes
white. He staggers back, panting, metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Rights himself.
The man is surprisingly fast and nimble on his feet for someone so much older. Ares had heard that he was released from prison
not long ago. Sentenced for murder. He believes it. The man looks like he’s spent the past decade pacing by himself, imprisoned
in his own mind, the life leaking out of him like watercolor until all that’s left is the feral, bloodshot red of his eyes,
the sickly yellowish tint of his skin and teeth.
Ares tries to take charge by feinting left—and it works, at first. He gets in three rapid jabs to the man’s stomach before his hands claw into Ares’s shoulders, forcing him back again.
In most matches, there’s usually some kind of unspoken etiquette about avoiding the face, but he strikes Ares hard across the cheek, an obliterating, searing sensation, the sheer pressure and force of it more shocking than the pain itself.
Ares feels his head swim, his legs swaying beneath him.
He can no longer tell if the dampness on his neck is from sweat or his own blood.
“The kid’s definitely losing,” someone remarks behind him.
Another voice agrees. “Yeah, just look at him.”
If he looks anything like he feels, then Ares can understand why they’d think so. He’s struggling to stay standing, to keep
breathing in and out. His body seems sluggish, like a foreign object controlled only by a remote with a bad connection, every
command registered a beat too slow. Then, a new source of pain.
Sharp, too sharp. Wrong and unfamiliar, cutting open his side, right under his rib cage.
Disoriented, Ares glances down just in time to see the silver flash of a pocketknife as it retracts from his wound, shining
red.
Even seeing it, he feels numb with disbelief, a refusal to accept that this is something that has happened to him, to his
body, that he must now deal with the consequences of it. A pocketknife, in the middle of a boxing match. But outside weapons
aren’t allowed.
He waits for someone to stop the fight. They must have noticed the knife, or at least the cut. The blood is spreading fast
through his shirt, and he reaches uselessly for it, his hand pressing down over his torn flesh.
But the crowd only watches.
The floor flips upside down, and he feels the cool cement on his cheek. Has he fallen? He’s lost his sense of direction; everything’s
blurry. When he squints up at the lights, he sees his opponent approaching, the knife gleaming in his hand, his shadow falling
over him. It shouldn’t be allowed, surely, by now, someone will speak up—
They’re letting it happen, he realizes dimly, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. This is his punishment for the other night, for letting Chanel escape.
He’d violated the second rule: He’d fought the men outside the ring. They don’t trust him anymore, and they’re certainly not
going to do anything to help him.
He could die here.
Like this. Alone, bleeding, curled up against himself like an injured animal.
And as soon as he becomes aware of this, he thinks, unwillingly, of Chanel Cao again. If he dies, the last time he ever saw
her would be at the lake tonight. The last words he’d ever spoken to her would be to disappoint her—
He struggles to rise, fingers scrabbling at the cement. His body feels like it’s made of lead, something he has to carry rather
than something he owns. He lifts his head inch by agonizing inch, eyes watering from the effort. He’s barely managed to shift
his knee forward when the man kicks his stomach so hard he gasps, his muscles seizing.
Bright, blunt pain.
He falls back down as the crowds roar in delight. The noise encases him like a cage, amplifying every shout of glee, every barked laugh. It seems almost impossible, like this level of cruelty defies the governing laws of the universe.
A boot grinds down over his arm, pinning him there. He wants to scream, to run, to fight back, but he can’t find the strength
to even open his eyes properly to look at the man who’s going to kill him. Fuck, someone’s actually going to kill him—
“Wait.” Sangui’s voice rings through the noise with enough urgency that everyone goes quiet. “Stop right now.”
Is he taking pity on me? Ares thinks in disbelief. Does he actually care enough to save me?
Then, as if from a great distance, he hears Sangui say, “Long Ge wants to see him.”