When you’re a kid, fighting seems like the coolest thing in the world. The feeling, how cool it looks, the power.

Now you’re an adult, it’s the worst thing in the world. The sounds, the pain of getting hit, the feeling of knuckle meeting wounded flesh. But it’s your job.

Pitfighting made money, and it was quick. Usually. You’d either put away your opponents with a few punches, or they’d knock you out.

Tonight though, Vi had a war with you. Bloodied fists and faces, you were both about to collapse.

About 10 minutes into the fight, you were in a clinch. Vi taps your side, she can barely muster much more of a hit.

“Just…go down…” She slurs out, her busted lip and black eye making any cognitive function difficult. And the concussion isn’t helping.