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Chapter 9: The Death of Innocence
The warehouse was electric with tension as the final match of the tournament approached. The crowd had thinned, leaving behind only the die-hard gamblers, gang leaders, and those too drunk or bloodthirsty to leave. The stench of sweat and blood clung to the air, and the flickering overhead lights cast long, menacing shadows across the ring.
Lex Navarro sat on a rickety bench in the corner of the locker room, his muscles aching, his knuckles raw. His body bore the marks of the last two fights—bruises blooming across his ribs and cuts lining his brow—but his mind was sharper than ever.
This wasn't just another fight. This was the fight.
"You ready for this, Navarro?" Marco asked, his tone light but laced with expectation.
Lex looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Marco's. "Who am I fighting?"
Marco's grin widened. "A kid from Los Jaguares. Name's Santos. Tough bastard. They sent him here to make us look weak. Your job is to make sure that doesn't happen."
Lex nodded, his jaw tightening. Rivalry between Los Soles and Los Jaguares had been brewing for years, and this fight wasn't just about money—it was about dominance.
"Oh," Marco added, lighting a cigarette. "When you beat him, you kill him. No mercy."
Lex didn't flinch. The thought of taking another life didn't weigh on him the way it had after his last fight. In fact, the idea sent a strange thrill through him.
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The crowd roared as Lex entered the ring, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony of anticipation. Across from him stood Santos—a lean, muscular boy with a predator's gaze. His shaved head gleamed under the dim lights, and his knuckles were taped so tightly that his fingers turned pale.
Santos smirked as Lex approached. "You're the Soles' little star, huh?" he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "You look softer than I expected."
Lex didn't reply. He let his silence speak for him, slipping into his stance with practiced precision.
The referee, a replacement brought in after the chaos of the previous match, raised his hand. "You know the rules," he said, though everyone knew there were none.
The bell rang, and the fight began.
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Santos came at Lex fast, his fists flying in a barrage of sharp jabs and crosses. Lex dodged and blocked, keeping his movements tight and economical. He had studied fighters like Santos before—aggressive and impatient, relying on brute force to overwhelm their opponents.
Lex waited for his opening. Santos swung wide, aiming for Lex's head, and Lex ducked under the blow, driving a hook into Santos's ribs. The impact sent a ripple through Santos's body, but he recovered quickly, countering with an uppercut that grazed Lex's jaw.
The crowd erupted as blood spattered onto the canvas.
Santos grinned, licking the blood from his split lip. "That all you got?"
Lex didn't respond. Instead, he lunged forward, feinting with a left jab before driving his right fist into Santos's stomach. Santos doubled over, and Lex followed up with a brutal elbow to the side of his head.
The fight became a dance of violence. Santos's strength began to wane as Lex picked him apart, targeting his ribs and legs with precision strikes. Each blow was calculated, designed to wear Santos down piece by piece.
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By the fourth round, Santos was barely standing. His breath came in ragged gasps, and blood dripped from his mouth and nose. But his eyes still burned with defiance.
Lex circled him like a predator, his mind racing. He could end it now with one clean strike, but something held him back—a strange, dark desire to draw it out.
The crowd chanted his name, their voices feeding the fire inside him. He landed another blow to Santos's jaw, sending him sprawling to the mat. The referee began to count, but Marco's voice cut through the noise.
"Finish him, Navarro!"
Lex didn't hesitate. He straddled Santos, his fists raining down like hammers. Each punch sent a shockwave through his arms, but he didn't stop. By the time Santos stopped moving, Lex's hands were slick with blood, and the crowd was on its feet, roaring their approval.
Lex stood, his chest heaving, as the referee raised his hand in victory.
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In the locker room, Marco handed Lex a thick envelope stuffed with cash. "Fifty percent, like we agreed," he said, clapping Lex on the shoulder. "You earned it, kid. Los Soles just got a lot stronger thanks to you."
Lex nodded, his hands trembling as he counted the money. It wasn't the blood or the death that made him shake—it was the exhilaration. For the first time, he felt like he truly belonged in this brutal world.
Tomas watched from the corner, his face grim. "You did what they asked," he said. "But don't lose yourself in this."
Lex met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "I'm not losing anything," he said. "I'm winning."
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