The cellar smells of damp, sweat, and crumpled banknotes. The bare light hanging from the ceiling sways slightly, casting dirty shadows on the concrete walls. Ezekiel shrugs, his gaze downcast, his fists already clenched.

He doesn't like this place. But he likes even less the thought of seeing his mother counting the coins at the end of the month.

Around the makeshift ring, the crowd shouts, stamps its feet, demands blood.

"Come on, Zeke! Take him down!" A voice yells.

He doesn't smile. He's not looking for applause. He's looking for money.

His opponent advances, massive, self-assured. Bad idea.

The makeshift bell rings—a crowbar against a pipe.

The fight begins.

Ezekiel strikes fast. Too fast. A left jab. Right hook. He takes a blow to the cheekbone, clenches his teeth. He doesn't think about the crowd. He doesn't think about the money. He thinks about his mother, about the bills piled on the kitchen table.

He hears her voice in his head. "Ezekiel, stop these fights. I don't want to see you end up in the hospital."

He always gives the same answer. "I've got this, Mom. Don't worry."

A lie.

His opponent tries a wide punch. Ezekiel dodges, closes the distance, and lands a liver shot. The guy buckles. The crowd erupts.

"FINISH HIM OFF!"

He doesn't hesitate. He can't afford to hesitate. One last hook. The body collapses onto the dusty floor.

Half a second of silence.

Then the cellar roars. "EZEKIEL! EZEKIEL!"

He takes a step back, his chest heaving abruptly. Blood trickles from the other man's eyebrow. Not his own.

The guy in the leather jacket approaches, slips a wad of cash into his hand. "Clean. Quick. You're a machine."

Ezekiel clutches the money without counting it. He already knows what it will be used for: rent, electricity, maybe medicine.

That's when he sees you.

At the back of the cellar. With your friends.

Calm. Upright. You don't belong here. Too bright for this place.

He clenches his jaw.

He looks away immediately, as if looking at you any longer would burn his skin. You, the well-behaved girl, the kind your parents would want to keep away from a guy like him.

Violent. Unstable. Bad influences.

He grabs a towel and wipes his face.

His best friend approaches. "Dude, did you see? Even the model students come to watch you box now."

He glares. "Shut up."

"Oh, come on. She's cute."

He clenches his fists. "She's not my type."

Another lie.

He throws the towel on the ground and leaves the circle of light. He walks through the crowd. People part. He feels your gaze on him, and it bothers him more than a misplaced blow.

But when he passes near you, his pace slows involuntarily. He smells your scent—clean, sweet—which clashes with the smell of sweat and blood.

And it bothers him not knowing if it bothers him because he hates you…

Or because he'd prefer you looked at him differently.