"In the red corner, weighing in at two hundred and fifteen pounds, with a record of three wins and twenty-one losses… Marcus Dorsey!"
The announcer's voice echoed off the bare concrete walls, delivering a verdict that felt like a death sentence. Marcus stood in the red corner, sweat trickling down his spine as he stared at the peeling yellow paint on the ring post. His gloves felt heavier tonight, as if they were weighted with the weight of his past. Everything felt heavier.
The tape around his knuckles was coming loose. He had wrapped his own hands—Coach Gert had been drinking again before they arrived. The white cloth was stained with old blood from previous fights, reminders of past failures. Marcus flexed his fingers inside the leather, and a dull ache shot through his wrist, a lingering reminder of that fight in Birmingham.
Three wins. Twenty-one losses.
Those numbers burned in his mind more painfully than any punch ever could.
The crowd was smaller than usual, maybe forty people scattered across metal bleachers that creaked with every movement. Old men clutched betting slips with trembling hands, their eyes dismissive as they glanced his way. A few family members of Brian "The Ox" Wilmer were present—his wife in the front row, proudly wearing a homemade t-shirt with his face on it, while his teenage son filmed the event with his phone.
Marcus had no one.
Well, almost no one. Tommy sat in the back corner, the only friend who still bothered to watch him get beaten senseless. Even Tommy seemed to wish he were elsewhere, checking his watch every few seconds. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke, wrapping around him like a funeral shroud. Someone had spilled coffee on the mat outside the ring, mingling with the antiseptic used to clean up blood between fights.
The energy felt lifeless. Small crowds always have this effect—sucking the vitality out of everything. In larger arenas, even a loss feels electric. Here, losing just feels pathetic.
"And in the blue corner, weighing in at two hundred and thirty-eight pounds, with a record of twelve wins and two losses... Brian 'The Ox' Wilmer!"
The crowd erupted. All forty people might as well have been four thousand, the way they screamed for Brian. He raised both gloves above his head, grinning as if he had already won. Given the circumstances, he probably had.
Marcus caught Coach Gert's eye from the corner. The old man gave him a thumbs-up that looked more like a death wish. Gert had taken him on six months ago after Coach Ruud finally gave up on him. The memory still stung—Ruud's face when he had said the words.
"I can't watch you destroy yourself anymore, Marcus. Find someone else."
Gert wasn't half the trainer Ruud had been. In fact, he wasn't even a quarter of the trainer. But he was all Marcus could afford, and they both knew it. A washed-up coach for a washed-up fighter—a perfect match.
The referee called them to the center. Marcus walked forward on unsteady legs, his body cataloging every ache and pain that would worsen tonight. His left shoulder clicked with each step—a legacy of a dislocated joint that had healed improperly. His ribs still ached from last month's fight, where he had endured body shots for eight straight rounds.
Three wins. Twenty-one losses.
"This is all you're good at," the voice in his head whispered. "This is all you'll ever be good at. Getting hit. Taking the punishment. Surviving just long enough to disappoint everyone watching."
When Brian touched gloves with him, Marcus felt the difference immediately. The Ox's hands were rock solid, exuding confidence. His grip was firm, his stance perfect. Everything about him screamed winner.
Marcus's own hands trembled slightly as he pulled back.
The referee's voice sounded muffled, as if coming from underwater. "I want a clean fight. Protect yourself at all times. Touch gloves and come out fighting."
The bell rang.
Both fighters circled each other, their feet sliding across the canvas in the ancient dance Marcus had been stumbling through for six years. He tried to remember the basics—jab, move, jab, move. Keep the left hand high. Watch his feet. Don't get trapped on the ropes.
The crowd noise faded to a dull roar in his ears. This was the only time he felt anything close to peace anymore—those first few seconds when the fight was still anyone's game, when he could pretend he still had a chance.
Brian came out fast.
Harder than Marcus expected. The Ox threw a massive overhand right that whistled past Marcus's ear, close enough that he felt the wind from it. Before he could reset, a body shot crashed into his ribs like a sledgehammer, forcing the air from his lungs.
Instinct kicked in, and Marcus clinched, grabbing Brian's shoulders and hanging on. The bigger man's strength was evident—he shoved Marcus off like he weighed nothing, sending him stumbling backward.
Another overhand, this one clipping Marcus's temple. Stars exploded across his vision. The crowd screamed.
Brian was trying to end it early, which is smart. Why drag out an execution?
Marcus kept his hands up, slipped the next punch, and fired back with a jab. It landed clean on Brian's nose, snapping his head back slightly. Marcus threw another, catching him on the forehead. Not power shots, but clean.
"Hit him, Ox! He's got glass bones!" someone screamed from the crowd.
Brian grinned through his mouthpiece and kept coming. He threw a combination—left hook to the body, right hand upstairs. Marcus blocked the head shot, but the body blow doubled him over. Pain shot through his entire torso.
Time moved strangely. Sometimes it crawled, every second stretching like taffy as punches came at him in slow motion. Other times it jerked forward, and suddenly Brian was on top of him, throwing leather, and Marcus couldn't remember how he'd gotten there.
He needed to move. Gert was screaming something from the corner, but it sounded flat and tired. The same advice he always gave.
"Move your feet! Use your jab! Don't let him sit!"
Empty words from an empty man.
Marcus remembered what authentic coaching felt like. Ruud's voice cutting through the chaos, specific and sharp. "Step left after the jab. Make him miss by an inch, not a mile. Stop reaching for power you don't have."
That was before Ruud gave up on him. Before everyone gave up on him.
The round stretched on forever. Brian was relentless, throwing heavy shots from every angle. Marcus slipped some, blocked others, and absorbed the rest. Each punch that landed took something from him—not just physically, though his body was already breaking down, but something more profound.
With thirty seconds left, Brian caught him with a perfect right hand on the button.
Marcus's legs turned to water. The ring tilted sideways. He grabbed the ropes to keep from falling, Brian swarming over him, throwing everything he had. The referee, observing, one hand ready to jump in.
The bell rang.
Marcus staggered to his corner, chest heaving, tasting copper in his mouth. Gert slapped an ice pack on his neck and shoved a water bottle between his lips.
"You're doing fine," Gert lied. "Just weather the storm. He'll tire out."
Marcus wanted to laugh. Brian looked like he could fight ten more rounds. Meanwhile, Marcus felt like he'd been hit by a truck. His left eye was already swelling, and blood dripped from his nose onto his chest.
Across the ring, Brian's corner was a celebration. His trainer was animated, pointing and gesturing. Brian nodded along, confident and relaxed. His wife was still screaming his name from the front row.
Marcus looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Not from nerves—from damage. The tremor in his right hand that never quite went away anymore was getting worse.
Twenty-six years old and already punch-drunk. Already broken.
He looked up at the ceiling, at the harsh fluorescent lights that made everything look sick and yellow. Somewhere above those lights was the real world, where people had regular jobs and everyday lives and didn't get their brains scrambled for three hundred dollars and a handful of empty promises.
His mother's face flashed in his mind. The last time he'd seen her was three months ago. The look in her eyes when she'd begged him to stop fighting.
"There's nothing left to prove, baby. Please. Just stop."
But there was something left to prove. He didn't know what it was anymore.
The promise he'd made to himself after his last real win—against some nobody from Newark who hit like a feather duster—felt like it belonged to a different person. A person who still believed in comebacks and second chances and all the bullshit they fed you when you were young and naive enough to think talent mattered more than luck.
"Seconds out!"
The referee called for round two. Marcus stood slowly, his lungs burning, his whole body screaming to stay down. But he couldn't. This was what he did. This was who he was.
The bell rang.
Marcus pushed himself off the stool, determination and hopelessness tangled together in his chest like barbed wire. He walked toward the center of the ring, toward Brian's hungry smile, toward whatever awaited him in the darkness beyond the lights.
He didn't know this was the night everything would change.