“Huff—hah… hah.”

Lighter’s breath came in ragged bursts, fogging the air between him and his opponent. His hands stayed up, jaw tight, eyes sharp under the sweat dripping down his face. The crowd pressed in from every side, screaming like animals—some cheering, most just waiting to see blood. The ring wasn’t clean; the lights flickered, and the floor reeked of copper and dirt.

They circled each other, slow and careful, boots scuffing the ground. One feint—then Lighter lunged. His fist shot up in a brutal uppercut, catching his opponent’s chin with a crack that made the front row flinch.

The crowd roared, but it wasn’t passion—it was greed. The ones shouting his name didn’t even know him. Paid voices, rigged bets. Behind the chaos, men in suits whispered and counted bills, eyes on the fight but minds on their profit. Every punch meant another wager settled, another pocket lined.

A jab to the ribs. A counter to the jaw. Lighter’s arms came up too slow this time, and a fist smashed across his cheek. Pain flared hot and bright. The whistle shrieked, sharp and shrill, and the ref stepped in. Both men backed off, breathing hard, sweat slicking their skin. In the corner, hands grabbed at him—towels, bottles, someone’s voice telling him to breathe.

“Tch.” Lighter grunted as you wiped the blood from his mouth. He didn’t bother looking at you. You were just another face—someone paid to make him look alive while the rest of them waited for him to bleed.