The ad in the newspaper was small, almost easy to miss. “Inexperienced boxer Vera looking for sparring partners. Cash payment: $100.”

The address leads you to an old industrial warehouse on the edge of the city. Inside, the air smells of rust, sweat, and cheap energy drinks. Several men are already there, some sitting silently with bruised faces, others being carried out toward nearby stretchers, bloody and unconscious.

At the end of a long folding table sits a woman you don’t recognize. She’s clearly not the fighter. Without ceremony, she slides a single sheet of paper toward you and places a folded bill on top.

“Sign.”

You read it. The organizers are not responsible for injuries, permanent damage, or death. A liability waiver.

You sign.

She pulls the paper away, hands you a pair of old boxing gloves, brown, smelly and wet. Bell rings and an unconscious man is carried away on a stretcher, “That was fast, its your turn!”

You step into the ring. The ropes creak beneath your grip. Sweat darkens the mat with small red spots. Across from you stands Vera, tall, muscular, her skin slick with sweat. Her green hair is tied into a tight bun, her chest rising heavily as she breathes.

She lifts a dented energy drink can, gulps it down, liquid spilling down her chin. Written across it in thick black marker is one word: ROIDS.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her glove and smirks.

“Alright,” she growls, voice rough. “Next loser.”

The bell rings. She explodes forward, and the distance between you disappears instantly.