Page 12 of Fractured Future

Using his distraction to my advantage, I strain my arm, hoping my fingers can reach the concrete sliver. He’s far too busy laughing at me, revealing gap-filled teeth that are now stained red.

Come on, come on,I mentally chant.

Another punch to the face arrives before I can locate my potential weapon, making my head wrench to the side as I feel my skin split open. Warmth dribbles down to my jaw in a slippery wave.

It hurts like a son of a bitch, landing right on top of the cheekbone that once took two months to heal. Blinking through the haze, I can distantly see the shard I’m searching for.

I’ve shifted enough from each blow to strain my fingers to a breaking point. The very tips catch on the concrete shard, but I don’t have a spare second to rejoice.

Nudging the ridged point, I draw it into my palm. Screaming and hollering echoing all around in a deathly bay soon fades away. The filthy fight club vanishes from sight.

All I can see is the wide, pleasure-filled eyes of the man who thinks he’s beaten me. He’s not the first. Certainly not the last. But he will be the latest to learn just how wrong his entire species is.

“Smile for the crowd, buddy.”

The chunk sails into his head, packing a heavy weight that stupefies him. His bulk wavers on top of me, but he’s still conscious.Good. I want him to feel this next part.

Repositioning the shard, I ignore every fresh injury wailing at me and aim for his face. The tip is angular enough to push into his eye socket with an audible squelch that would turn a weaker stomach.

His resultant howl could break the sound barrier, it’s so inhumanly loud. Blood spatters against my face like spitting oil, mixing with my own.

Pulling my arm back, I take in the sight of his contorted face. Hands slapped over his eye, mouth frozen open on a pathetically high-pitched scream. Beautiful.

It’s child’s play to shove him aside, allowing me to shakily sit up. Every limb protests against the movement, but I’m a master at locking my pain away. It barely registers as I draw to my feet.

I’m prepared to take out his other eye or perhaps tear his throat out with my teeth when the piece of shit begins to plead. At least I think he does. I can’t understand his language, though he’s clearly cowering.

“Tiempo!”

The announcer’s voice and a blare of an air horn marks the end of the fight. Tossing the slick shard aside, I raise my hands as high as my battered body will allow.

“768! 768! 768!”

The cheers are a confusing mixture of English and Spanish. I’ve learned enough of the latter to communicate with Gael and his men, no matter which lawless city we rock up in to fight.

“768!”

Slowly rotating around the pit, I relish in the jeering onlookers. Their praise isn’t what I’m here for, though. It’s their exuberance which marks another day of my survival.

Only one person isn’t responding to my victory. The figure stands out among the revellers who clink beers and rush to collect their earnings or stand wallowing in their financial losses.

A tall, frozen statue.

Silently watching from afar.

Nimble fingertips tangled in the chain-links, as if he was attempting to rip them open and climb into the pit himself, his undivided attention is locked solely on me.

The feel of his stare drinking me in across bloodied concrete and untold horrors feels weirdly intimate. In a crowd of drunkards, he’s just standing there. Unmoving. His patience is seemingly infinite.

“768! Here!”

Carlos’s bark pierces the strange moment, tearing me free from the bubble that’s formed around me in the mayhem. I look over to my trainer’s scowl, waving for me to follow him.

When I glance back at the crowd, the strange onlooker is gone. Not a shred of evidence remains to prove that he wasn’t a figment of my likely-concussed imagination.

With Carlos banding an arm around my midsection, I limp away from my now-sobbing opponent to leave the pit. No one is attending to him yet. Whoever he’s fighting for—a gouged eye is the least of his problems now that he’s lost.

“That was pathetic,” Carlos criticises in his usual way. “You were weak.”