"Seconds out, round two!"
The ref's voice cuts through the thick air like a blade. Marcus pushes off his stool, legs heavy as concrete blocks. His chest burns with each breath. The water Gert squeezed into his mouth tastes like copper and regret.
Brian bounces on his toes in the opposite corner, rolling his shoulders. Fresh sweat glistens under the harsh lights. His mouth guard shifts as he grins. The crowd behind him buzzes with anticipation. Someone shouts about easy money. Another voice calls for blood.
Old Willem adjusts his position in the third row, wincing as his arthritis flares. His betting slip crumples in his weathered hands. He's been coming to these fights for twelve years, watching young men destroy themselves for pocket change and fleeting glory. His pension doesn't stretch far, but he always finds money for the fights.
The woman with the homemade Brian flag waves it lazily. Her enthusiasm from round one has dimmed. Her son fights next month in Amsterdam. She watches Marcus struggle and sees her own boy's future written in the bruises under his eyes.
Tommy shifts in his seat, coffee cup empty now. His shift at the port starts in four hours. He should be sleeping, but something keeps him here. Maybe loyalty. Maybe morbid curiosity. Marcus saved his brother from a beating outside a bar two years ago. Tommy's been repaying that debt one fight at a time ever since.
Brian surges forward before the echo of the bell fades. His first punch—a looping right hand—whistles past Marcus's ear. The second one, a left hook aimed at the ribs, finds its mark. Marcus grunts, absorbing the impact through his guard. The leather of Brian's glove sounds like a mallet hitting wet meat.
Marcus steps back, circles left, tries to create distance. Brian follows like a shark smelling blood. Another hook to the body. Another grunt. Marcus clinches, wrapping his arms around Brian's thick torso, buying himself three seconds to breathe.
"Work, work!" the ref shouts, but he lets them stay tied up for a moment longer.
Brian shoves Marcus off with both hands. The force sends Marcus stumbling backward into the ropes. The crowd jeers. Someone yells for Brian to finish it. The drunk man in the back corner starts a slow clap that nobody joins.
Marcus slips the next punch—barely. Brian's glove grazes his temple, close enough to feel the wind from the leather. Marcus fires back with a jab, his best punch, the one thing that still works when everything else falls apart.
The jab lands clean on Brian's nose. A small burst of satisfaction flares in Marcus's chest. Brian's head snaps back. His expression shifts from confident to annoyed.
The crowd noise shifts too. A few people clap. Not many, but enough to notice. Marcus lands another jab, then a second one. Brian's nose starts to swell.
"That's it, Marcus!" Tommy's voice carries over the crowd noise. "Keep boxing!"
Brian wipes his nose with his glove. When he sees the smear of blood on the leather, his whole demeanor changes. The showboat vanishes. The predator emerges.
Brian starts targeting the body with surgical precision. Left hook to the ribs. Right uppercut to the solar plexus. Marcus doubles over, air rushing out of his lungs. He tastes blood—his own this time, from where he bit his tongue.
The round drags on like a slow-motion car crash. Marcus survives by clinching, by moving, by absorbing punishment that would drop most people. His vision starts to blur around the edges. The crowd noise fades to a dull roar.
The bell rings. Marcus staggers to his corner, breathing like he just ran a marathon. Gert wipes his face with a wet towel that smells like bleach.
"You're doing good," Gert says, but his voice lacks conviction. "Keep your hands up. Work the jab."
Marcus stares at his gloves. The leather is darker now, stained with sweat and blood—some his, some Brian's. His record flashes through his mind again. 3 wins, 21 losses. Soon to be 3 wins, 22 losses.
He thinks about the apartment he shares with his landlord's constant threats. About the job interviews where they see his face and ask what happened to it. About his mother's funeral, where only seven people showed up because everyone else was tired of watching the Dorsey family fall apart one disaster at a time.
The ref calls time. Round three.
"Stay down this time, Dorsey!" Brian's voice booms across the ring as both fighters approach center. "Make it easy on yourself!"
A few people in the crowd laugh. Marcus doesn't respond. He's learned that words waste energy he can't spare.
Brian drops his guard slightly, showing off for his corner. He throws a lazy jab, telegraphing it like a billboard advertisement. Marcus sees the opening and takes it.
His combination flows together like muscle memory from better days. Jab to set up distance. Cross to follow through. Left hook to finish. All three punches land clean.
Brian's head snaps back with each impact. The crowd erupts—not just Brian's supporters, but everyone. Even old Willem claps, arthritis forgotten for a moment.
Marcus feels the rush. The electricity that runs through his veins when everything connects perfectly. For ten seconds, he remembers why he started boxing. Why he fell in love with the sweet science of hitting without getting hit back.
Brian staggers but doesn't fall. His eyes clear quickly, focus sharpening to a razor point. He responds with an uppercut that starts somewhere near his ankles and travels upward with the force of a freight train.
The punch catches Marcus flush on the chin. His mouthguard flies across the ring. His legs turn to rubber. The crowd noise becomes a distant echo.
Somehow the bell rings before he hits the canvas.
Marcus stumbles to his corner, vision swimming. The ring lights create halos and double images. Gert's voice sounds like it's coming from underwater.
"...keep moving...stay off the ropes...Marcus, you listening?"
Marcus nods, but he's not sure what he's agreeing to. His hands shake as Gert forces water between his lips. The liquid runs down his chin because he can't coordinate swallowing.
Tommy leans forward in his seat, concern etched across his face. He's seen men get hurt in the shipyards—accidents that change people forever. Marcus has the same look now that those men had right before everything went wrong.
The woman with the flag stops waving it. Her enthusiasm dies as she watches Marcus struggle to focus on Gert's face. This isn't entertainment anymore. This is something else.
The drunk man in the back stops heckling. Even he recognizes the difference between sport and something darker.
Round four.
"Box!"
The ref's voice sounds sharp and distant, like it's echoing from the bottom of a well. Brian presses forward immediately, sensing weakness the way animals sense fear.
His hooks to the body come in waves. Marcus does everything he can to survive. He clinches when possible. He covers up when necessary. He breathes through gritted teeth and tells himself this round will end eventually.
Brian's sweat sprays across Marcus's face as they separate from another clinch. The smell is sharp and acidic. Brian shoves Marcus off with both hands, creating space for another assault.
Marcus throws a desperate hook, aiming for Brian's temple. His feet tangle as he pivots. His balance shifts wrong. Brian's wild shot—a right hand thrown with bad intentions—catches the back of Marcus's head.
Time slows.
The ring lights become stars. The crowd noise fades to silence. Marcus's vision tunnels to a pinpoint of light surrounded by expanding darkness.
He feels his legs buckle. Feels the canvas rushing up to meet him. Cold against his cheek. Rough against his skin.
Somewhere far away, people are shouting. The ref is counting. Brian is celebrating. Marcus tries to push himself up, but his arms won't respond to his brain's commands.
Images flicker through his fading consciousness. His mother's face the day he won his first amateur fight. The empty kitchen table where she used to wait for him after training. The promises he made to her about climbing out of poverty and making something of himself.
All of it slipping away like water through his fingers.
The medics arrive. Their voices blend together into meaningless noise. Someone checks his pulse. Someone else shines a light in his eyes. Coach Gert hovers nearby, chewing what's left of his toothpick.
Everything goes black.
In the darkness, letters appear. Glowing. Cold. Unfeeling.
SYSTEM ACTIVATING