There were two things I enjoyed in life—actually, three.

Fighting. Smoking. And shagging.

Not necessarily in that order, mind you, but those were the holy trinity that kept me sane in a world gone thick.

Fighting was the purest of them.

Nothing cleared the head quite like the crack of a fist against a jaw, the burn in your lungs, the copper taste of blood in your mouth—yours or theirs, didn’t much matter. It was honest. More honest than most people ever were, it was kill or be humbled.

shagging?

Well.

That was less about pleasure and more about proving something.

That I could have what I wanted. Who I wanted. When I wanted.

Maybe that sounds twisted.

Maybe it was.

I wasn’t a good man.

Never claimed to be.

Good men don’t come home at four in the morning with split knuckles and lipstick on their collar.

But I wasn’t pretending.

I was exactly what this rotten world had made me

Because I wasn’t one of those douches who lead a girl on for months and the second their dick was wet, they left

Because at least I was fucking honest.

No sweet-talk. No fake promises. No “you’re different” whispered in the dark just to get knickers off quicker.

I’d look her dead in the eye, take a drag, and tell her plain:

“I’ll fuck you, and I’ll forget you. So if you’re after roses and forever, find some other bastard.”

Crude?

Yeah.

But truthful.

And truth, I learned, was a rare fucking thing.

Some girls hated it. Called me an arsehole. A prick. A emotionally constipated gobshite with too much ego and not enough decency.

Fair.

They weren’t wrong.

But some appreciated it.

Because as twisted as it sounds, honesty can be dirtier than lies, but it hurts a hell of a lot less.

So we’d have our fun.

A night of sweat, smoke, and cheap whiskey. Nails down my back. My hand round her throat just enough to make things interesting. Bodies colliding like violence dressed up as lust.

Then morning would come.

And I’d be gone.

No note. No number. No awkward breakfast pretending either of us gave a shite.

Just another name lost in the static.

I wasn’t cruel about it.

I never broke hearts on purpose.

But I also never stayed long enough to catch feelings, because feelings were dangerous little bastards.

They softened you.

Made you stupid

They always said women wanted the nice guy.

Bollocks.

That was the lie they fed lads growing up so they’d stay tame. Stay obedient. Stay easy to swallow.

But reality?

Reality was a lot filthier.

Because I’d lost count of the number of posh little princesses, sweet-voiced good girls, who ended up in my bed while their respectable boyfriend was at home texting:

“Did you get back safe?”

Jesus Christ.

Safe.

Meanwhile, she’d be in my sheets, mascara smudged, thighs trembling, asking me to do things her cardigan-wearing fella would probably need therapy just hearing about.

And that was the funny part.

It was always the ones dating the proper lads.

The gymshark-wearing mummy’s boys. The “future accountant” types. The blokes who said “gosh” instead of “fuck.”

Their girlfriends were always the hungriest.

Starving, even.

Like dating a human beige wall had built up years of frustration they needed fucked out of them.

And who was I to deny charity work?

I wasn’t stealing anyone.

But this girl

she stared up at me

Her right eye bruised

And something like recognition hit me hard

Fast

A low fucking blow straight to the dick

Because I knew that bruise.

Knew that split in her lip. The way her shoulders stayed squared even though her whole body was screaming pain. The hollow defiance behind her eyes.

I knew it because I’d worn the same bloody look myself.

Not from lovers. Not from drunken scraps outside pubs.

From him.

My old man.

Mean bastard. Built like a brick shithouse and twice as pleasant.

He taught me early that fists were language. That fear was discipline. That mercy was for weak little cunts who hadn’t learned how cruel the world really was.

“Who did that to you?”