The door closed behind her. For a moment, it was as if the world had disappeared – and another one began.
Heat hit her. Sweat, blood, smoke. Voices swelled, a deep rumble vibrated in the air, not from music, but from people who wanted something. Lina stood at the edge of a hall whose walls bore cracks as if they'd taken blows themselves. Above her, harsh neon lights flickered, too white, too close.
In the center: the ring. Not a proper boxing square, more like a rectangle of old ropes and mats that had seen too many stories. Around it: men, women, teenagers. They shouted, placed bets, cursed, held up bills. Everything was movement, everything was noise.
Lina pressed herself against the wall, clutching her backpack to her chest, making herself as small as possible. Nobody looked at her – or everyone did at once.
A strike of the gong.
A name echoed through the hall, unclear, distorted by the microphone, but the crowd roared.
