Page 8 of Violent Possession

“Tell the truth.”

She swallows hard and gives a nervous little laugh.

“Maybe a little...”

It’s emotional pornography.

Seeing the wound up close, licking the dried blood, touching the exposed bone, and telling me I’m beautiful like this: beautifulin spiteof it, beautifulbecauseof it. It means you’re the freak in the center ring and the living reminder that someone is more fucked up than they are. They see a hole, they think they can fuck it.

I stand up. The bed groans.

I grab my pants, pull them on without rushing. I tuck the chain with its oxidized medallion under the collar of my shirt.

“You should get some help.”

“It was just an opinion...”

“Yeah,” I say.

Marcus was right. I should’ve called a professional, someone who knows when to shut up.

Outside, the music still pulses in the hallway.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

A rat’s heart on the verge of death.

CHAPTER 2

THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE

ALEXEI

The crowd goes silent. It’s a shocked silence that doesn’t belong with an audience that paid for violence. Their champion, Rat, lies on the floor. A heap of flesh and blood. And the other one, the so-calledIron Arm, continues. Punch. Punch. Punch. His left hand, covered in wraps, hammers Rat’s already unconscious face. He switches. He grabs the man’s collar with his bandaged hand and positions the metal bar he calls an arm. The fist closes imprecisely. The prosthesis isn’t very good. He punches. The metal has more mass, more rigidity, and less cushioning. The sound is ugly. It’s a cracking split, a sharp crepitation. It certainly shatters the champion’s jaw, leaving it mobile, dangling with his neck, crooked and unhinged.

And he laughs,Iron Arm. He laughs. He looks at his grotesque work as if he expects Rat to spit out bloody congratulations through broken teeth and a hanging jaw. He doesn’t stop.

Karpov is plastered against the railing, his eyes bulging. Evenheshuts up, as Rat stares at the ceiling, glazed, unblinking. With red sclera, outstretched arms, and a loose jaw, he’s a horror film, a scarecrow of violated flesh. Iron Arm’s mouth twitches.He looks at the mess he’s made and has a spasm—a proud, appreciative half-smile, even amidst the tense silence as a man has to climb into the ring to check his opponent’s pulse.

Of course, deaths happen in underground fights. But they’re discouraged. It’s too much to clean up, an expense they prefer to avoid, and when they do happen, they’re unintentional—I’m the one who cleans up all of Ivan’s shit, every single time, and I know: fighters may love violence with a devout passion, but eventheyshow concern. First-time killers get nauseous, dizzy, or, as veterans, worry about the consequences of lost profits, of owing a backer, of disrupting a circle of dangerous men who profit from the now-dead body.

But facing the possibility of killing your opponent with a smile so honest and sick is new.

The crowd only explodes again when Rat is confirmed to be alive. The organizer raises the man’s left arm—the one of flesh and bone—and yells a name that gets lost in the noise. I hear boos, but mostly, I hear organized, terrified chants of IRON ARM.

Karpov slams his fist on the railing. “Son of a bitch! Useless! I told him to finish off the stump in the first round!” He turns, his face red with rage. “That fucking cripple, who does he think he is? Motherfucker!”

I remain silent, watching Iron Arm descend from the ring. He moves with an economy of motion that contradicts the savagery of seconds ago. A man, perhaps his agent, meets him, slapping his back with a familiarity the fighter clearly despises. I see the subtle flinch, the tensing of his shoulder. He doesn’t like to be touched.

“You lost money, Karpov,” I say. It’s always satisfying to see Karpov lose, whining like a child who broke his favorite toy.

“Don’t fuck with me, Malakov,” he growls. “That was a lucky shot. Rat is a lazy imbecile.”

My gaze follows the fighter as he disappears through a back door. That medallion glints again as he turns. An insignificant detail. And yet.