Music for chapter: Acid Bath - Dope Fiend
Bangkok, 1928, Beneath the city's polished temples and swaying palms, the underground thrived in the rot. The stench of sweat and blood clung to the walls; The dim, flickering bulbs hung from frayed cords, casting shaky shadows on the cracked concrete floor. The basement reeked of mildew and piss, but the smells were of no consequence with the adrenaline rushing through his veins, because here there was no law other than violence begets violence and the ring was god.
He stood in the corner, wrapping his hands. Slow. Methodical. Each twist of the cloth was a ritual, one he'd performed a hundred times before. He didn't know the exact number and honestly he didn't care. His bare chest glistened in the haze, lean muscles shifting like coiled springs beneath rough mocha skin, scars laced across his ribs, a history carved in flesh.
His name? Around the ring, they called him Rat, some kind of joke. But his real name, one of the few things he had, was Saeng. No last name, no family, Just Saeng; the kid who stole scraps and slept under broken roofs, a gutter rat made of blood, bone, and too much rage.
He blinked through sweat. Beyond the curtains, the room filled with a crescendo of noise, jeers, chants, and the sharp snap of lighters, all swelling like an approaching storm. The crowd's roar pulsed through the walls, Desperate, hungry. They were shoving their last dollars on the line, betting what they couldn't lose. But tonight was different. Tonight was the big one. And the house was packed.
"Five minutes."
The voice belonged to Khwan, an old trainer with a jaw like an anvil and a limp from a fight that broke him. He didn't ask if the boy was ready. He knew the answer, they all did.
Saeng tightened the last wrap and rolled his shoulders, he could feel it already: the rush building in his blood, that raw cocktail of fear and fury, the electric hum before the storm.
This was his purpose. This was what he was made for..
The ring was nothing special. Ropes fraying. Corners stained. But it might as well have been a cathedral under the dim yellow light. The crowd pressed close, sweltering and wild-eyed. Sweat beaded on foreheads, bets changed hands, rotting teeth were bared in drunken grins.
And in the middle stood the giant.
Phichai the Bull. Six-foot-two, built like an Indian war elephant. A local legend in the pits, crushing his last three opponents in under a minute, and he was grinning now, tattoos twitching across his arms as he bounced on the balls of his feet.
But Saeng didn't flinch.
He stepped into the ring barefoot, ignoring the boos and catcalls. The crowd didn't like him. Didn't trust a street rat in their sacred circle. He didn't look like he belonged to anything but the alleys. Maybe that's why they hated him.
Good. All the better for when they lose their money.
Rolling his neck and shaking out his hands, he waited.
The bell rang.
Phichai charged in like a battering ram.
Saeng slipped sideways, ducked the sweeping elbow, and came up inside the guard. One-two. Right hook to the ribs. Left to the jaw. Bones cracked like dry bamboo. Phichai stumbled, and a look of surprise flickered in his eyes.
The crowd howled.
Circling, the bull came in again, more carefully this time. Elbows tight, hands high. He threw a spinning backfist. Saeng leaned under it, drove his knee into Phichai's thigh, again and again. Chop the tree, bring it down.
A minute passed.
Then two.
They were drenched now, breathless, legs burning. Blood dripped from a cut above Saeng's brow, he could taste iron. He reveled in it.
Then it came, the moment. Phichai shifted his weight wrong, Saeng saw the opening like a lighthouse in the dark.
He stepped in.
Left feint.
Right elbow. Sharp. Brutal. Into the side of the giant bastards skull.
Phichai went limp before he hit the ground.
The crowd exploded.
Saeng stood over the body, chest heaving, fists still raised. The announcer called the win, but he wasn't listening, instead he was watching the eyes in the crowd.
Most looked shocked; Some furious.
And one, well, one pair of eyes burned with hate.
The backroom was at least quieter. Not silent, but quieter. Saeng sat on a folding chair with a towel draped over his shoulders. Khwan handed him a wad of cash, and a bottle of water.
"Keep this up, you'll be the king of this place soon."
Saeng nodded, silent. He didn't want to be a king, he just wanted to survive.
The door opened.
Three men entered. All silk shirts and gold teeth. One was small, ratlike. One wide with a lazy eye. The last, in a cream suit, held a cigarette between his lips and hatred in his eyes.
"You cost me a lot of money tonight."
Saeng didn't answer, instead he acted like he heard nothing and sipped his water.
"Twenty grand on Phichai. Twenty fucking grand. Thought he was a sure thing. Then you," his lip curled, "some nobody comes in and burns it all down."
Saeng got up and stepped close enough for the man to smell the blood still on him., "Save the sob story. You wanna cry over bad bets, take it to the temple. Next time, pick a winner."
The man's smile faded. "Be careful. I hear gutter trash from the streets often vanish without a trace and no one bothers to asks questions."
Khwan stepped forward. "You want a rematch, talk to the house. Don't bring your shit in here."
Cream-suit stared at Saeng another second, then turned and spat on the floor.
"This ain't over, gutter scum."
He left alone, always did. The money was stashed deep in his coat, hidden beneath layers of cloth, sweat and bruises. Bangkok at night was a beast, so he walked the alleys like a shadow, keeping close to the walls, always watching.
But maybe tonight his guard wasn't high enough.
Footsteps behind him. Fast.
He turned, but a second too late.
Something sharp slid into his side.
Shock, not pain, came first. Then heat.
Saeng staggered, gasping. He grabbed the attacker's wrist and saw his face.
Cream suit.
"Should've kept yer' fuckin mouth shut."
The man twisted the knife. Saeng grunted, then screamed in rage.
In a burst of adrenaline he drove a headbutt into cream suits nose. Cartilage snapped. Blood gushed. The man reeled. Saeng lunged forward, grabbing the knife and ignoring the fire in his side, he drove it into the man's gut. Once. Twice. A third time.
Cream suit howled in pain and tried to flee.
Saeng yanked the blade out, spun him, and slit his throat.
Silence.
The man collapsed, twitching.
Saeng dropped the knife and stumbled.
The alley swam before his eyes.
He leaned against the wall and slid down it as the world tilted.
He looked up. Stars blinked overhead, indifferent and cold, they were so clear tonight, but so far away.
His breath came shallow. His vision blurred.
He thought of the street kids, of Khwan, of the cat he always fed near the temple.
Of all the things he hadn't done.
He didn't want to die. But he wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.
His eyes closed.
Aullie woke with a gasp.
His sheets were damp. His chest heaving.
Silence filled the dorm room as the silver-blue glow from Kirin Academy's artificial moonlamps washed over everything. Outside, the wind sighed through the sakura trees, their branches whispering as they swayed.
Shinku, Aullie's cat sat on the edge of the bed, watching him with those impossible ruby-red eyes.
"Still dreaming about him?"
Aullie blinked. Did he just... hear the cat?
No, that would be crazy.
He pressed a hand to his chest and felt the faint echo of pain, as if the blade had found him even here.
It was just a dream.
Right?