9. Mikhail
Mikhail
Ican’t stop moving in this shitty bathroom, rolling my shoulders and pacing the grimy tile floor like I’m trying to wear a path through it.
Daniil wasn’t there when I woke up this morning.
He left again, won’t reply to my texts, and I’ve sent enough that I’m starting to look pathetic.
I don’t know what’s happening with him. Maybe he’s struggling more than I realized because he likes men.
I don’t give a fuck about that part, I really don’t.
Does he think I’m some sort of homophobe?
Watching him pull away from me is making me want to crawl out of my own skin. So I left and decided to go to the match I had planned anyway.
Might as well get the aggression out in the cage before I explode, because I feel like I’m losing my mind.
Tapping cocaine onto the back of my hand, I snort it hard, the burn tearing straight up my nose and slamming into the back of my throat. My head tilts back, and I stare at the water-stained ceiling, jaw locked so tight my molars grind together.
Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I can already feel that familiar rush building in my system, bringing everything into clarity.
I do another line, bigger this time, then one more for good measure. The world narrows down to just this, just the chemical focus flooding my brain and pushing everything else into the background. I flush what’s left down the toilet and watch it disappear, taking my better judgment with it.
Bouncing on my feet, I shake out my arms before slapping myself hard across the face. The sting snaps everything into focus since pain works when nothing else does. Time to act like I’m not falling apart.
Shoving the bathroom door open, I step back into the locker room.
The announcer’s voice bleeds through the concrete, trying to whip the crowd into a frenzy outside.
The coke hits hard and fast. My heart’s hammering a million miles an hour, fingers tapping against my leg in a rhythm I can’t control because being still isn’t an option anymore.
That crawling-out-of-my-skin desperation from before? Gone. Replaced by this electric energy that makes everything feel possible. This is so much better. Everything’s better now, even if it’s temporary as hell and I’ll pay for it later.
“Let’s go. Hands need wrapping before gloves,” Carlos says, already moving toward the bench.
“Da, calm your tits. I’m coming,”
Carlos drops onto the stool and motions me over. “Remember what we went over?”
“Watch my back. Tiago likes to sneak it.”
“Exactly. Spinning hooks. He’s all about your blind side, same patterns every time.”
My knee bounces while he wraps my hands tight, the familiar ritual calming me down a little.
Once he’s done, I pull the gloves on and flex my fingers, and then we head down the hallway to the staging area where the crowd’s loud enough to make the walls shake.
The announcer calls my name, and the doors swing open with Carlos right behind me.
My hype song “Back to Life” by ScurtDae tears through the speakers, makes the entire place shake and people lose their minds, screaming, reaching out to touch me while we walk to the cage. Hands grab at my shoulders, my arms, anything they can reach.
My eyes are already burning under these brutal lights. The building is massive, the cage sitting dead center surrounded by bleachers stacked up high. Every expensive seat filled with rich pricks who dropped serious cash to watch people beat each other bloody, sometimes worse.
They get off on it because none of this is official, just expensive entertainment for the night while they sip overpriced drinks.
I take the platform stairs two at a time and step through the cage door while a staff guy holds it open. Carlos follows me in and hands me my mouthguard.
The lights drop and Tiago’s name blasts through the speakers, music hitting so hard the floor trembles under my feet. I drop into a crouch, hands braced on my knees, and stare straight at the cage door where Tiago’s about to enter. Waiting.
He steps into the cage with his arms up, working the crowd into a frenzy. He’s about the same size as me, maybe an inch shorter. Confident. Cocky even.
He finally looks my way and realizes I’ve been staring at him the whole time. Something shifts in his face, and I stay completely still.
The crowd gets louder. They love this.
Tiago’s trying to look unbothered, but I can see the tension creeping into his shoulders.
The bell sounds, and everything snaps into focus.
Straightening up, I move to the center and tap hands with him quickly, barely a touch, then circle back.
Tiago moves fast, throws a jab straight at my face. I don’t bother blocking. I let it land. My jaw snaps sideways, vision blurs for half a second, and something inside me explodes.
My fist crashes into the side of his face before he can pull back.
I feel teeth shift under my glove, hear something crack deep in his jaw.
He stumbles backward, and I don’t give him time to recover.
I drive my fist into his liver and the air rushes out of his lungs.
He tries to throw another punch, but I’m already inside his reach. Everything moves slower now.
Another swing comes at my head, but slipping it takes no effort.
My elbow rockets across his nose and the crack echoes loud enough to cut through the roar of the crowd. Blood erupts from his face, spraying hot across my chest as he jerks back, clutching at the damage, but I don’t let him breathe.
Grabbing him by the neck, I drag him forward and slam my knee into his stomach with everything I have. Before he can drop, I wrap both arms around his waist from behind and lock my grip tight across his stomach.
I arch hard, throwing my weight backward into a suplex. His feet leave the ground, and for half a second, we’re both suspended in the air, then I drive him down. His shoulders hit first, then his head bounces off the mat hard enough that the cage shakes.
The crowd’s screaming, but it sounds like static in my ears.
I’m on top of him before he can pull air into his lungs, straddling his chest and pinning him down with my knees on either side.
I start throwing punches, one after another without stopping.
His cheekbone gives under my knuckles, something wet and warm spraying across my forearms with each connection.
Blood pools on the mat beneath us, spreading dark and thick. He tries to turn his head away, but I fist his hair and force it back, holding him still. My glove connects with his temple, then his eye socket, then his jaw again.
Each impact sends a jolt up through my wrist, bones breaking under leather and tape. His face isn’t recognizable anymore, just raw meat and blood mixing together.
Someone catches my shoulder from behind, trying to pull me back, and shouts that the fight’s over, then I hear someone from Tiago’s corner screaming at me.
“Fucking Avrorin trash! Your whole fucking family is—”
Everything stops. The grip on my shoulder tightens, but their voice vanishes. My vision tunnels hard on the group of them pressed against the barrier.
I shove whoever it is off me, and he hits the mat.
Security’s coming, but I’m already moving, sprinting across the cage.
The fence is right there, and I jump, fingers catching the chain-link, and haul myself up.
Someone’s yelling behind me, but I’m over the top, dropping down into the crowd on the other side.
The guy who was talking sees me coming, and his face goes white. He tries to scramble back, but there are too many people packed in and nowhere for him to go. I grab him by the throat and slam my fist into his face. Once. Twice. His nose explodes and blood sprays hot across my knuckles.
His buddy lunges at me from the side, and I catch him with an elbow to the temple. Another one tries to latch onto my arm, and I spin, driving my fist into his ribs. The crack is satisfying even through all the noise.
People are screaming now, trying to get away, but I’m laser-focused on the mouthy one. I grab him by his shirt and throw him into the barrier, the metal rattling loudly.
He’s choking on blood, trying to say something, and I lean in close. “What was that? Couldn’t hear you.”
Then I’m hitting him again, my fist connecting with his jaw, his cheek, anywhere I can reach. Someone jumps on my back, and I throw myself backward, slamming whoever it is into the concrete. They let go with a grunt, and I’m back on the first guy, dragging him forward by his collar.
Security’s still pushing through the crowd, but they’re too slow. I get two more hits in before hands lock onto me from behind, multiple sets, trying to haul me backward. I thrash against them, still swinging. My elbow catches someone in the ribs, and they grunt but don’t let go.
More hands pile on, and suddenly, there are five or six of them dragging me back, my feet barely touching the ground. I’m still trying to break free, twisting and kicking. One of my feet connects with someone’s shin, and they curse, but their grip doesn’t loosen.
The crowd’s going insane, phones everywhere, recording everything. This is definitely going viral. Father’s going to see this. Fuck, Father’s going to see this.
I’m suddenly aware that I might’ve just fucked up.
Might’ve.
They’re dragging me down the hallway now, away from the cage, away from the crowd still losing their minds. My shoulders are screaming from how tight they’re gripping me, and my feet keep catching on the concrete as they haul me backward.
“You done?” one of the security guys grunts in my ear.
“Nyet. Probably not,” I say, because honestly who knows at this point.
They drag me all the way to the locker room and shove me inside, and I stumble forward and catch myself on the bench. The door slams shut behind me, and I can hear them talking outside, probably deciding if they need to stand guard.