Fight Night

Fuck me sideways, if life wasn't already kicking me in the balls with its steel-toed boots, it had to throw in a damn mystery from the past just to keep things spicy. I mean, come on! Just when you think you've got a handle on things, life bends you over and shows you it's just getting started.

So there I was, sweating through another grueling training session with Mark, my childhood buddy who'd turned into some kind of sadistic drill sergeant. Don't get me wrong, the guy's a boxing genius, but his idea of a pep talk could make a Navy SEAL cry. And me? I was just trying not to die of exhaustion.

"Come on, Damon! My grandmother punches harder than that!" Mark taunted, ducking another one of my pathetically slow jabs.

"Yeah, well, your grandmother is a terrifying woman," I gasped, swinging and missing yet again. Mark laughed, that deep, booming sound that made the gym walls shake a little. If muscles were brains, he'd be a fucking Einstein.

So, here I was, gearing up in a way-too-tight robe that made me look more like a delusional superhero than a boxer. The place? The fucking Dragon Dome, filled to the brim with people high on excitement, cheap beer, and those ridiculous foam fingers. Why foam fingers? I had no idea. It was the first round of the Dragon City Knockout Tourney, and your boy Damon was about to throw down.

"Look at all these people," I muttered, peeking through the curtains backstage. "Came here to see me get my ass kicked."

Mark, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, gave me that knowing smirk. "Nah, they're here to see you kick ass, or at least get a good laugh."

"Reassuring," I shot back, rolling my eyes.

I wasn't just nervous; I was about to shit bricks. My opponent was Tommy "The Tank", a guy so huge I'm pretty sure he ate dumbbells for breakfast. The announcer was hyping him up, and every word made my stomach twist more. "The unbeatable, the indomitable, the terrifying Tommy The Tank!"

"Jesus, could they make him sound any more like a monster truck?" I quipped, tugging at the robe.

Mark chuckled. "Just remember the training. Speed over strength. Dance around him. Make him tired. You've got the Iron Mike skill and those Fast Feet now, so use 'em."

"Great, I'll be the Flash with a black eye."

Walking out into the arena felt like stepping into another world. Lights blinded me, cheers and jeers mixed into a cacophony that hit harder than any left hook I'd ever taken. I climbed into the ring, trying my best not to look like I was about to piss myself.

Tommy was already there, bouncing on his toes, which was impressive for a guy his size. He looked like he could punch through a wall and still have enough energy to knit a sweater.

Ding! The bell rang, and holy hell, it was showtime.

Tommy came at me like a freight train. His first punch sailed over my head—I ducked just in time, thanks to those Fast Feet—and I could feel the wind from it. I danced back, threw a couple of jabs that did fuck-all to him.

"Come on, Tiny," he growled, and I swear I saw a tooth sparkle. Was this a fight or a fucking toothpaste commercial?

I kept moving, throwing punches when I could, but it was like hitting a mattress. Nothing I did seemed to faze him. Then, he landed a hit—right in the gut. I wheezed, pain exploding in my midsection.

"Is that all you got?" I managed to gasp out, trying to channel my inner Deadpool. If I was going down, I was going down talking shit.

He grinned, and it wasn't friendly. "Warmup's over, pretty boy."

The next few minutes were a blur of trying to dodge his punches and failing spectacularly at it. I took hits that would've put a normal guy down for the count, but thanks to Iron Man, I was still standing. Barely.

Then, it happened. He was panting, the Tank running low on fuel, and I saw my chance. I darted in, fast as a starving cheetah after a three-legged gazelle, and landed a solid hit right on his jaw with all the grace of a ballet dancer on steroids.

The crowd went absolutely nuts. Tommy staggered, shook his head, and then gave me a look that could curdle milk. "Lucky shot," he spat.

"Luck's my middle name," I quipped, dodging another of his punches. I was getting the hang of this, maybe.

We traded blows for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes. My skills were holding up, but damn, I was tired. Like, marathon-runner-who-just-found-out-the-race-was-uphill-both-ways tired.

The bell rang, ending the round, and I stumbled back to my corner, where Mark was waiting with a water bottle and a towel.

"How you holding up?" he asked, eyeing me like I was a lab experiment.

"I feel like I just went ten rounds with my ex's guilt trips."

Mark snorted. "You're doing good, Damon. Just keep it up. You got him on the ropes."

"Feels more like he's got my lungs on a squeeze." I gulped down some water, splashed some on my face, and stood up, ready for another go.

Just as I was about to step out, the lights flickered. A weird tension filled the air, a static charge that made my hair stand on end. I glanced around, confused. Then, out of nowhere, a voice boomed through the arena, echoing off the walls like some goddamn Bond villain.

"Ladies and gentlemen, sorry to interrupt, but I have a special announcement."

It was Mr. Long's voice. Fuck me, not now.

"I would like to place a bet. One million dollars on Damon Ashburn to win the tournament."

The crowd erupted in cheers and gasps. I stood there, mouth open, mind racing. A million bucks on my head? No pressure, right?

"Shit," I muttered, looking over at Mark. "Guess I'm really in it now."

Mark clapped me on the shoulder. "Just another day in Dragon City, huh?"

"Just another day," I agreed, my heart thumping in my chest like it wanted out.

As I squared up for the next round, all I could think was, "What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice whispered, "Just wait until you see what comes next."

The bell rang, and I turned to face Tommy, who was cracking his knuckles like he was about to play the piano on my face. But now, the stakes were higher, and so was my adrenaline.

Tommy eyed me like I was the last slice of pizza at a sleepover—eager, a bit desperate, and ready to throw down for it. The crowd's energy was electric, buzzing through the arena like live wires. With Mr. Long's million on the line, the stakes were higher than a kite on the Fourth of July.

I danced around, my newly honed Fast Feet making me feel like I was skating on ice—slick and quick. "Alright, Tank, let's see if you can keep up with me," I taunted, throwing a few experimental jabs that cut the air between us with a whistle.

Tommy grunted, swiping at me with swings that could knock out a horse. "Stop running, you little shit!"

"Can't catch me, can you, big guy?" I chirped, bobbing and weaving like my ass was on fire. Every dodge was a narrow escape, and every crowd cheer was a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart.

But let's be real, even Fast Feet couldn't keep me safe forever in this ring of pain. Tommy managed to corner me against the ropes, his massive frame blocking any easy escape. "Gotcha now," he growled, a wicked grin splitting his face.

Just as he launched a fist that probably had its own postal code, I ducked. Pure, dumb luck—or maybe the ghost of Muhammad Ali whispering in my ear. His fist met the ropes, and the rebound smacked him right in his own face. The crowd lost their collective minds. Even I had to stop for a second, gaping.

"Fuck me, that's gotta hurt," I muttered, then capitalized on his stagger. I rallied, throwing a combination of punches that had 'thank you, Mark' written all over them. Left, right, uppercut—like I was checking off a grocery list. Milk, eggs, smack the hell out of Tommy.

Tommy stumbled back, shook his head, and fixed those bloodshot eyes on me. "You're gonna pay for that, pretty boy."

I wiped sweat from my brow, smirking. "Put it on my tab, Tank."

As the next minutes ticked by, the fight morphed from technique to sheer willpower. Every punch I landed was a message—not just to Tommy, but to Uncle Long, to Richard, to every damn person who ever thought I'd roll over and die.

Finally, with a left hook that felt like I'd thrown my soul into it, Tommy's knees buckled. He hit the mat with a thud that I felt in my teeth. The ref swooped in, started the count, and every digit was a drumbeat to victory.

One... Two... Three...

The crowd was a living thing, roaring, screaming. Some were cheering for Tommy to get up, others were chanting my name. It was madness, intoxicating and terrifying.

Eight... Nine... Ten!

It was over. Tommy was still on the ground, looking like he was trying to remember how many trucks had hit him. Me? I was standing, barely. My arms went up, and for a moment, I was the king of the world.

I turned, seeking out Mark in the crowd. He was on his feet, yelling something I couldn't hear over the noise, but his grin said it all. I'd done it. I'd won my first fucking fight.

But before I could even think about celebrating, before the sweat had even cooled on my brow, that damned voice boomed through the arena again.

"Congratulations, Mr. Ashburn! Quite the performance. But let's see how you handle your next challenge."

Uncle Long's voice cut through the chaos, cold and sharp. A chill ran down my spine. The crowd hushed, sensing the shift.

"Bring him out," Uncle Long ordered.

The curtains at the far end of the arena parted, and out stepped a figure that made my recent victory feel like a distant memory.

There, illuminated by the harsh overhead lights, was the last person I expected to see in the ring—someone whose presence turned my stomach to ice and my triumph to ash.