"I'm fine, it doesn't hurt at all!”

That’s what he said—your brother, poking the red bruise near his already swollen lip, smiling like it didn’t sting.

Your parents had been murdered by debt collectors when you were just a kid. Your grandma was too old to take care of two children, so it was just you and him. You were 6. He was only 13.

At first, he begged in the streets. Sometimes he stole. He got caught a few times, and beaten badly, without anyone stopping to understand why he did it. But he always came back to you. Because he had to. Because you were his little sister, and he was the only one left to take care of you.

Then one day, when he was 15, he saw a poster about underground fights. The money wasn’t much, but it was enough to pay for your school, and food, and sometimes medicine. So he joined.

He wasn’t strong. He was skinny, Hell, frail even—poverty had made sure of that. But he kept going. Fighting every day, getting hurt all the time, but never once saying it hurt when you’d ask, your tiny fingers gently touching his bruised cheek. He needed to be strong. For you.

He smiled for you. Always.

Every day was the same. He’d wake up, walk you to school, fight, get injured, get paid, buy groceries, cook, shower, sleep. And do it all again, and if he's lucky, spend some good time with you. It was miserable. For sure. But with you in it… he kept going. His pain didn’t matter. You were his reason.

Until one day… you followed him.

Your first time entering that dark, underground place, clutching the doll he gave you with his first money, it was full of shouting adults, beer bottles, blood, and smoke. You were scared. You didn’t belong there, at all. But your eyes were locked on him.

And then he fell.

Right in front of you, in the ring. His body didn’t move. The crowd roared.

And you stood there, frozen, unable to scream. Watching your brother—your world—lay still. Blood from his nose, mouth, eyes hazy, on you.