A/N: No line in the story is meant to be hate or offensive to someone. So if someone does get offended, share this story with others instead, and relax a bit.
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"Get the fuck up, you bitch! ", I heard someone shout as I was kicked awake.
Bad way to get your morning started, I know. But hey, there was nothing we could do. The place we grew up in needed that kind of roughness.
I stood up, and it was like my drowsiness was wiped clean.
Two men in heavy black armour, with a baton in their hand came up to me and pushed me towards the door.
I groaned from their harsh behaviour.
"Hey, can I at least have my coffee?"
Hearing this, the guards were surprised, and looked around, probably trying to find their seniors?
I don't know.
I mean they should be, when thrown with a weird question. Coffee in this place was a fucking luxury. Unless you are deep throatening the owner, you don't get coffee. And the ones that deep throat the boss, is kinda bigshot.
But the thing was. I am not big shot, and definitely not a blowjob specialist.
The guards understood that I was just babbling nonsense, and pushed me into a white ring.
A referee, a heavy and tall man, standing like a Viking shouted, "Red Player, ready?"
That's when I noticed, opposite to me was a guy in red short.
He nodded.
Not to me, but to the referee. When he found me looking at him, he smiled. And his teeth were red.
Don't ask me how. I have no clue.
The African man had probably got periods? From his mouth?
At least that's what I want to belive. Always think funny, if you don't want to be scared here.
The Viking looked at me and asked, "Black player, ready?"
Now a normal person would think, I could have just backed off from the match. But hey, none of us here were brought by our wish. So no, you don't have a choice. If you don't join, you are useless for the boss. And useless for the boss receives a bullet on the fucking head.
I nodded, as I brought my forearm to guard my face and chest.
Referee shouted, "Fight!!" Then he moved back.
The moment the Viking barked "Fight!", Red didn't waste a heartbeat. He came charging like a bull—chin tucked, shoulders square, both fists up. His first step was a lunge, the kind you see in street fighters who rely on intimidation rather than balance. But I'd seen that kind of rush a hundred times before.
He was heavy on the front foot — good for pressure, bad for defense.
I slid my left foot half a step back, weight on the ball of my rear leg. Classic defensive stance. My forearms formed a tight shell — what Mike Tyson used to call the Peek-a-Boo Guard. Hands near my temples, elbows close to ribs, chin buried.
His first punch was a looping right hook — sloppy, wide, all muscle. I dipped under it, feeling the wind of his knuckles graze my ear. As he over-committed, I pivoted left, right foot tracing a small semi-circle. It's called an angle step — used to create new lines of attack.
His momentum carried him forward, and that's when I buried my left jab straight into his ribs. Short, tight, with the knuckles landing flush on his oblique. It wasn't a knockout shot — more like a reminder. A good fighter builds messages one punch at a time.
He grunted, twisted, and came back swinging. This time he kept his elbows tight. Smarter already. His jab jabbed out twice — fast but not accurate. Still, I noted the rhythm: one-two… pause… overhand right.
I slipped the first jab to my right, parried the second with a downward flick of my left glove, then dipped just as the overhand came whistling over my head. The moment he missed, his guard opened like a door.
Counter-time.
I popped my shoulder and fired a rear uppercut, snapping from the legs, not the arms. Impact was clean — right on the solar plexus. You could feel the vibration through the glove. He stumbled back, eyes wide, breath stolen.
Good. First blood — metaphorically, anyway.
The crowd around the ring — a bunch of uniformed watchers — began shouting bets and curses. The Viking grunted something I couldn't hear over the noise. Didn't matter. In the ring, noise disappears. It's just you, breath, heartbeat, and physics.
Red regained footing. He raised his guard higher now. He was learning — that was dangerous. The dumb ones are easy; the ones who adapt are a problem.
He faked a jab, dipped low, and launched a tackle.
A takedown attempt — street-style, no clean form, but raw power. He wanted to pin me.
I sprawled. Dropped my hips back, legs shooting out, both hands pressing down on his shoulders as his momentum died halfway. He tried to clutch my waist, but I twisted left, shoved his neck down, and slammed my knee into his shoulder. Frame control. His balance broke — I rolled him sideways and stepped back, resetting stance.
He coughed and stood up, furious. "You fight like a rat!" he yelled.
"Rats survive," I said.
He roared and came in again, this time throwing straight punches — jab-cross, jab-cross. They had weight now. The air cracked. I used small lateral steps, circling, letting him chase shadows. That's ringcraft 101: control the center, force him to rotate, and he'll tire twice as fast.
His breathing grew heavier. Shoulders rising. Chest pumping. That's when I changed gears.
I fainted a jab, waited for his countercross — and as it came, I slipped inside, left shoulder brushing his arm, and hammered a tight right hook to the body. Then immediately another to the liver.
His whole frame shuddered. Body shots don't look spectacular, but they're time bombs. The pain blooms five seconds late and shuts everything down.
I stepped back, hands up, giving him false hope. He rushed forward again, desperate to land something big before his body gave up. Classic mistake.
He threw a wide left. I ducked, twisted, and let my right knee rise — Muay Thai counter. My kneecap collided with his abdomen mid-swing. The sound was wet, solid.
He folded but didn't fall. Credit where due — man had heart.
He swung an elbow wildly. Caught my forearm. Stung. I answered with a front kick, heel straight to his sternum. That one sent him staggering two steps back, gasping.
Ref didn't stop it. Of course not. They don't stop till one man's unconscious or broken.
By now, both of us were sweating. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears. The floor under my feet was sticky — probably blood from the last fight dried in streaks.
Red wasn't quitting, though. He switched stance — southpaw now. Interesting. I mirrored him automatically, orthodox against southpaw, right foot outside his lead to line up the cross.
He pawed with his right jab, testing distance. I didn't bite. The trick here was to break rhythm. Fighters think in patterns — one-two, slip, hook, clinch. You cut the pattern, you own the tempo.
So I lunged forward suddenly, throwing a half-power jab just to make him flinch, then feinted a cross and went low — inside leg kick. My shin cracked against his thigh. Solid connection. He winced, shifted weight to his back foot. Perfect.
I kicked again. Same leg, different spot — just above the knee. Dead leg technique. Over time, it kills their mobility.
He tried to counter with a spinning backfist — wild, showy. I ducked and shoved him mid-spin. He lost balance, stumbled to the ropes.
Before he could recover, I closed distance. Clinched — both arms wrapped around his neck and one underhook. Classic Muay Thai clinch. From there, I yanked him down, smashing a right knee into his midsection. Then another. Then a third.
He blocked the fourth, shoved me back, and spat red saliva. "You bastard."
"Language," I said automatically, tasting irony.
By the third minute, both of us were breathing fire. I'd landed the cleaner shots, but he had mass — every collision rattled bones.
He charged again, head low. I met him with a quick cross-hook-cross combo, snapping the head back, then pivoted out. But he kept pressing. He caught my shoulder with a hook — not flush, but enough to sting.
Pain has a way of waking up instincts you thought you buried. I blinked, refocused, and decided to end it.
He came in swinging — jab, cross, overhand.
I ducked under the overhand, stepped inside, and hip-tossed him — a judo move, classic O-goshi. His back slammed onto the mat with a dull thud.
He groaned, half-dazed. I dropped a knee near his chest to control posture.
Now came the grappling phase.
He tried to bridge and roll. I floated, keeping my weight distributed, left arm under his neck. I could've gone for a choke, but rules here didn't seem to care either way. Instead, I pinned his right wrist with my knee, cocked my left arm, and sent two controlled punches — straight to the temple, not full power, just enough to scramble balance.
He grabbed my wrist. I twisted, broke the grip, and shifted into side control. My right knee pinned his arm, my shoulder pressed into his jaw, cutting oxygen. He panicked, started flailing.
"Easy," I muttered. "Breathe."
He didn't.
So I slid my forearm across his neck and leaned in. Shoulder pressure choke. Not lethal, just uncomfortable enough to drain fight spirit.
Seconds felt like minutes. He thrashed, tried to bridge again. I let him. As he rolled, I transitioned to mount position, knees locking his torso. From there, every punch had gravity on its side.
Left, right, left — controlled, measured.
He raised arms weakly to block. I feinted high, dropped low — hammer-fist to the jawline. Clean hit.
His eyes fluttered. The Viking started moving closer but waited — maybe for dramatic timing.
One last strike. Not a punch — an elbow drop from short range. I used the point of the elbow, tucked thumb, and connected to his chest just below the clavicle.
He gasped. Arms fell.
Ref's hand came down between us. "Stop!"
I froze mid-motion, breathing hard. The Viking lifted his arm toward me. "Winner — Black Player!"
Cheers, jeers, claps — a mess of sound washed over me. I stood, shoulders heaving, gloves sticky with sweat.
Red lay on the mat, chest rising slowly. He'd wake up in a few seconds, maybe bruised ribs, maybe nothing broken. Terrible luck he had. Because according to what I know of this place. Losing means one thing. Yeah, guessed it right. Ding ding. A bullet in the head.
The guards approached again. One of them, same guy who'd kicked me awake earlier, actually smiled. "Didn't think you had it in you, twig."
Obviously the smile didn't mean he was friendly.
"Neither did I," I said, wiping sweat from my brow.
They shoved me toward the exit tunnel — long corridor lit by flickering bulbs. My lungs still burned from the fight. My forearms throbbed. But my head? Clearer than it had been in weeks.
That's the thing about fighting — real fighting. It strips everything away. Fear, pride, guilt — all peeled back until what's left is simple movement, breath, reaction. It's as pure as survival gets.
As I walked, I replayed the match in my head.
Mistakes:
– Guard dropped twice during exchanges.
– Didn't check the first leg kick soon enough.
– Spent too much energy during clinch sequence.
Notes for next time. There's always a next time.
At the corridor's end, the Viking blocked my path. Up close, he was even bigger — arms like tree trunks, beard matted with sweat.
"You fight too clean," he said. "Not like the others."
"Habit," I replied.
He nodded once. "Keep that and you might not live longer."
Then he opened a metal door. Beyond it lay a dark staircase descending into the unknown.
Before stepping through, I turned back and asked, " Thanks for the advice. Any chance I can get that coffee now?"
He grinned like a maniac, and then laughed — deep, rough sound. "Maybe after your next win."