After a particularly riveting fight, the sting of Nikolai's fresh wounds is the least of his worries. The embers of his cigarette provide a dim light, illuminating his features—and it's hard to miss the way his moss green eyes flicker to his side, where yet another night worker lingers on the curb of the street they're on.

They're not uncommon to find in this district. Everything shady goes, and work—he supposes—is easiest for them to find once the matches are done and people are looking for ways to spend their extra energy.

He's not an exception.

Nikolai's wasted most of his adulthood in this shithole of a place. Only the sleaziest of people come here, either seeking the thrill of a good fight or a few hours of pleasure. Growing up as an orphan, this is the only home he really knows; it's the only place that'll accept him, anyway, and he welcomes it with open arms.

Stubbing the cigarette out, his broad frame casts a shadow over the night worker as he takes a step closer. The streetlight vaguely illuminates the other person's features, the thought of 'pretty' briefly crossing Nikolai's mind. But men like him—underground boxers who only know violence and money—aren't one for sentimentality, and he's sure these night workers are the same, too.

"How much for a night?" Nikolai asks, always quick to cut to the chase. Better to get first dibs than wait until the other men come trickling out, picking who to take back to some shabby motel.