Epilogue
GRIFFIN
The sound of victory is different when it’s expensive.
It’s not the guttural roar of a hundred betting addicts huddled in a damp basement, nor the animal howl that echoes between cracked concrete walls.
It’s a deafening thunder of thousands of lungs in perfect sync, applauding, screaming, roaring inside a hermetically sealed, technologically-packed arena.
The texture of the sound and the very air are distilled into pure adrenaline, and every molecule vibrates with the expectation of carnage.
The ceiling vibrates, the armchairs tremble.
Even the floor, under my bare, blood-stained feet, pulses to the rhythm of the crowd.
The arena floor doesn’t give way, but the champion from Kyiv does.
The giant they promised me as a challenge is now lying on his side, a trickle of blood running down his square chin, his chest heaving irregularly, his eyes rolling in their sockets, searching for an escape through his own eyelids.
He’s twice my size, they say, but has half my malice.
He was used to felling men with a look, with his résumé, with his fame.
He wasn’t prepared for someone who likes taking a punch more than giving one. He wasn’t prepared for me.
The referee, straight out of a funeral fashion catalog with his starched black shirt, grabs my wrist and raises it high.
My arm makes a cracking sound; I don’t know if it’s my dislocated shoulder or the momentary silence that precedes the roar of the stands.
One, two seconds of pause, then the arena melts into catharsis: screams, horns, the nervous laughter of the rich guys who bet against me.
I can smell money burning in the air, that acidic aroma of dollar bills losing value in real time.
The cameras descend on me. There are at least twenty, some floating on robotic arms, others operated by men in tuxedos with sweat dripping down their foreheads.
The lenses are dark, gleaming, hungry. They want every detail—every recent cut, every old bruise, every spatter of blood mixed with the saliva that drips from my chin.
They want the monster, they want the spectacle, they want the fighting dog. And I give it to them, as always.
I look directly into the main camera, the one with a small red dot glowing on its side, indicating that I’m live to the entire world.
I know that on the other side, there are millions of hungry eyes, waiting for my reaction.
It’s no surprise, it never is: I give them the smile.
The slow, wide smile that can’t be mistaken for joy.
In the front row, a group of women in dresses worth more than my entire childhood screams my name.
They have their phones held high, flashes popping even though there’s enough light to illuminate hell.
One of them, a blonde, very thin, with red lipstick, makes a little heart with her hands. I laugh.
The fans… it’s still new, still strange.
Before, it was the bettors, the creditors, the men who swore revenge who looked at me.
Now, I’m desired like a circus animal, a freak dressed in human flesh and recycled bones.
They want me. They want the violence, they want the victory, they want the story of the cripple who became king.
The arena is a perfect circle, bordered by thick ropes, but the real boundary is imposed by the light.
Around the ring, LED spotlights so intense they turn sweat into diamonds and blood into rubies.
The smell is different here. It’s expensive perfume, high-end deodorant, the electricity of a live broadcast. The audience is a mix of oil magnates, oligarchs’ sons, internet celebrities, and the occasional very well-dressed lady who bets as if she were an Olympic athlete.
They all cheer together, they are all part of the machine that brought me here.
I could lose myself at this moment. I almost let myself be carried away by the illusion of triumph.
The one on the floor begins to move. Panting, he tries to get up, but shakes his head no.
I extend my metal hand—it weighs more than it should—and help the fallen animal to sit up.
He smiles at me with an unexpected complicity, as if we had shared a dirty secret.
And in a way, we did. We are two men paid to destroy each other’s bodies and also to maintain the farce of respect, of honor, of sport.
He calls me “brother”. I just shake my head. I have no brothers. Never have.
The master of ceremonies invades the ring and begins the usual speech.
Words like “courage”, “overcoming”, “glory” ricochet around the arena.
I learned to deal with this. I know it’s just theater.
Everyone knows. But everyone pretends to believe, because the theater is necessary.
Without the theater, it all becomes barbarism, and no one wants to look their own hunger for violence in the face.
The defeated champion receives a hug from his coach, someone wipes his face, someone pushes a cold towel against his split temple. He’s already forgetting the defeat, already thinking about the consolation prize, the next fight, the next night. Me too. It’s never enough.
The interviews start right there, in the ring.
The reporter is a kid who can barely hide his fear as he approaches.
He speaks English with a British accent, asks about strategy, about overcoming adversity, about my plans for the future.
I answer on autopilot. Short, telegraphic sentences.
I taste metallic blood in my mouth and lick my cracked lip to show my teeth.
The kid trembles. He’s probably scared by the possibility that maybe he likes me more than he should.
The TV producers want footage. They ask me to pose with a clenched fist, to smile, to raise the belt that weighs like an iron chain.
I’m a statue of flesh and steel, a propaganda machine at their service.
They say I’m an icon now. They say I have fans in Asia, in America, even in Africa. They say a lot of things.
I’m led out of the ring, escorted by two security guards who are afraid of me but are paid to pretend they aren’t.
They don’t touch me, they don’t dare—direct orders from Alexei, and to this day I don’t know how he found out I don’t like physical contact from strangers—but they clear a path through the cold corridors with the reverence reserved for sharp and dangerous objects.
The backstage air is different: clean, recycled, scented with the disinfectant freshness that only hospitals and morgues possess.
The walls are a clinical white, and the automatic doors open to reveal doctors and nurses in neat uniforms, trained to never stare at anyone for too long.
Violence is routine, but no one likes to look at it head-on.
My recovery suite awaits me at the end of the hall, luxurious and aseptic, decorated like a five-star hotel disguised as an infirmary.
Thick, white towels, stacked in symmetrical pyramids.
A giant TV broadcasting replays of the event in real time, with animated graphics and slow-motion shots glorifying every punch I let slip through.
In the corner, a minibar overflowing with translucent bottles of imported water, premium energy drinks, and organic snacks packed in matte plastic.
I sit on the marble bench, my muscles pulsing in anticipation of relief, and only then do I feel the real weight of exhaustion.
The blood runs viscous down my mechanical arm, forming tiny pools that dry before they touch the floor. A nurse approaches and starts cleaning the blood without saying a word.
Then, the door bursts open without ceremony.
My peace is shattered. Marcus has become a living caricature, a hurricane in a shiny purple suit, white leather shoes, and gold chains that swing with a profane clatter.
The smell of sweet cologne and expensive whiskey invades the room even before his voice, which arrives a few decibels above what’s permissible for normal humans.
“MY BOY! MY CHAMPION!” He gestures as if he could palpate his own enthusiasm, jumping from side to side with an energy that would make a border collie envious.
His smile is wide, indecent, and his front tooth gleams gold under the artificial light.
“Did you see that? Did you see that Ukrainian’s face?
He didn’t know if he’d been hit by a train or by God! It was sublime, sublime, sublime!”
He approaches, ignoring the nurse and circling me, his restless hands looking for something to hold: a glass, a towel, my own arm, which he examines with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. Marcus has always had this strange relationship with my prosthesis.
He kisses the top of my head and then steps back to admire the scene.
“You have no idea what you just did, stumpy. There are people from China, from the Emirates, even an American who wants to take you to Vegas! They want posters, they want your signature, they want to make action figures of you. You’ve become a product, my boy! Finally!”
I stare at Marcus without reacting, letting him pour out the torrent of words. He doesn’t wait for an answer, he never does. The speech is for himself, an ego-feeding monologue.
One of the doctors approaches, trying to examine my dislocated shoulder. Marcus shoos the man away with an imperial gesture.
“You’re the name of the night, Griffin.”