The air in the underground warehouse was thick with the familiar smell of sweat and smoke. The distant roar of the crowd seeped through the thin walls, a constant reminder of the violence to come. Dante Vitale sat on a worn-out bench in the corner of the locker room, wrapping his hands in frayed boxing tape. His muscles felt tight, but he wasn't worried, he'd been in worse shape before a fight. This wasn't anything new.
With each wrap around his knuckles, Dante felt the rhythm of the ritual settle his nerves. He stretched his fingers, eyes scanning the dimly lit room. The buzzing lights flickered, casting long shadows across the cracked concrete. Another night, another fight. He should've been at school, but this was where he needed to be.
"Just another scrap," he muttered under his breath, pulling the tape tight one last time.
The door creaked open, and a familiar voice broke through the tension. "Still pretending you're tough, Vitale?"
Dante didn't even bother looking up. He knew that voice, Andrei Volkov. Leaning against the doorframe, Andrei flashed that same smug grin he always had. Even in this dump of a warehouse, Andrei carried himself like he was in control.
"You might wanna think twice about stepping in the ring tonight," Andrei continued, his tone slick with arrogance. "Wouldn't want you to ruin that pretty face of yours."
Dante's lips curled into a smirk, but he didn't bite back. He stood, rolling his shoulders as he finished wrapping his hands. His focus was already shifting to the fight. Words didn't matter, only fists.
The crowd roared louder as the fight before his ended, and Dante pushed past Andrei without a second glance. The dingy hallway opened up to the main fight area, a rough-and-tumble ring in the center of a makeshift arena. The spectators were packed tightly, a mix of rowdy men and women looking for their next fix of violence.
Dante stepped under the blinding lights of the ring, his opponent already waiting. A tall, lean guy with a sharp gaze, bouncing lightly on his feet. Dante's muscles tensed, adrenaline surging as the crowd roared around him.
The bell rang.
Dante charged in, fists flying. He hit hard, using every ounce of his strength. His fists connected with his opponent's body, heavy and fast. But his opponent was quick, rolling with the punches, dodging when necessary. Dante's hits weren't landing as cleanly as he wanted. His style was all aggression, all raw power. His opponent was more precise, more controlled.
A hook to the ribs sent a shock of pain through Dante's side, but he shook it off, pushing forward with reckless abandon. He absorbed the punches like he always had—pain was just part of the game.
"Just one good shot..." he thought, swinging wildly. "That's all I need."
But his opponent was smarter. Faster. Each of Dante's punches was met with a counter, a strike to his ribs, his jaw, his gut. Sweat poured down his face, blurring his vision as he kept swinging, refusing to back down.
"Dante! Guard up!" Coach Russo's voice boomed from the corner. "Stop playing around!"
Dante ignored the command. He knew only one way to fight, forward. Always forward.
Another hit. This one to his jaw. The world spun, and for a moment, Dante's legs faltered. His opponent stepped back, eyes watching for any sign of weakness.
The crowd was a distant hum now, drowned out by the pounding in Dante's head. He clenched his fists, blood trickling from a cut above his brow. His vision blurred, the edges darkening. But he wasn't done.
He'd never be done.
Dante's vision blurred, and the roar of the crowd became distant, as if someone had turned down the volume on the chaos around him. His opponent, quick and calculating, bounced lightly on his feet, watching for any sign of weakness. He couldn't show it. Not now.
Dante shook his head to clear the fog, tightening his fists as the pain radiated through his body. His opponent was breathing evenly, not a drop of sweat on his face, while Dante felt like his muscles were made of stone, heavy, aching, but unwilling to quit. He'd never quit.
"Just one good shot," Dante muttered under his breath, his eyes locked on the other fighter.
His opponent smirked, clearly seeing the struggle etched in Dante's movements. With a burst of speed, the fighter darted forward, unleashing a barrage of sharp jabs. Each punch connected, one to Dante's jaw, another to his ribs. The impact jolted his body, sending him stumbling back into the ropes.
The crowd's roar surged again, feeding off the brutality, hungry for more. Dante's breathing was ragged, but his fists stayed tight, knuckles white under the fraying tape.
"You still think you can take this guy?" Russo's voice cut through the haze, shouting from the corner. "Get your head together, Vitale!"
Dante's heart pounded in his ears. He could feel the bruises already forming on his ribs, his head spinning from the repeated blows. But as his opponent moved in for the kill, something inside Dante clicked.
Survival.
The moment his opponent threw another jab, Dante ducked low, rolling under the punch and swinging his right fist up into the man's gut. The impact was satisfying, his fist landed with a deep thud, and the other fighter doubled over, the breath knocked out of him.
Dante didn't wait. He lunged forward, driving his left hand into his opponent's ribs with a brutal hook, then followed with a sharp uppercut that snapped the man's head back. His opponent staggered, dazed, and for the first time, Dante saw a crack in his composure.
"Got you," Dante thought, his eyes narrowing. His body screamed in protest, but his instincts pushed him forward.
Another heavy hook crashed into his opponent's jaw, sending him stumbling sideways. The crowd was on its feet now, the noise deafening.
Dante moved like a machine, relentless, aggressive. His opponent tried to raise his hands in defense, but Dante was faster, more brutal now. Each punch was fueled by pure grit, not technique, but it didn't matter. He was in control.
With one final blow, a devastating right hook to the side of the head, Dante's opponent collapsed to the canvas, his body limp. The crowd erupted, roaring with approval as the ref stepped in, counting out the downed fighter.
Dante stood there, chest heaving, blood dripping down his face from the cut above his brow. His arms hung at his sides, his muscles trembling from exhaustion, but he stayed standing. Barely.
The ref raised his hand, signaling the end of the fight.
It was over.
Dante turned toward Russo, who nodded slowly, arms still crossed. He wasn't celebrating, but that was Russo's way. He expected more, always.
As Dante stepped out of the ring, his body protesting every movement, Andrei Volkov was waiting, leaning casually against the wall. That same arrogant grin was plastered on his face, but now there was a glint of something else, maybe surprise, or respect, buried deep beneath the layers of arrogance.
"Not bad, Vitale," Andrei said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Maybe next time you won't need to take so many hits before you figure it out."
Dante ignored him, the ache in his body demanding all his attention. There was nothing to say. The fight was done, and he'd won. That was enough.