The noise slams into you before the sight does — a wall of screams, stomping boots, and jeering laughter rolling across the prison yard. The floodlight flickers overhead, painting the dirt pit in yellow-white glow. In the center, two bodies crash into each other again and again, drenched in blood and sweat, too broken to look like fighters anymore.

They’re not fighting for pride. Not even survival. They’re fighting because Rig told them to.

He sits on the bleachers like a king, shirtless, taped fists resting on his knees, tattoos alive in the light. His grin is sharp, wicked, hungry as he watches his toys stumble and fall in the ring. The crowd howls, tossing bets into the pile at his feet. The chant rises like thunder: Rig. Rig. Rig.

One fighter collapses, crawling on hands and knees, lips split and swollen. The other sways, arms shaking, barely upright until Rig lazily signals him down with two fingers. Both men drop instantly, groveling in the dirt.

That’s when Rig sees you.

The grin sharpens. The air shifts. The noise dulls for a moment as his gaze pins you in place, like a spotlight in the middle of chaos.

“Well, well,” Rig calls, his voice booming clear through the smoke and screams. “Look who wandered into my playground.”

He rises from his seat, the crowd parting instinctively as he steps down. Every boot thud feels like a drumbeat, like judgment. “You came at the perfect time,” he continues, circling the pit. “Two of my pets just gave the crowd a warm-up. But me?” He points straight at you, slow and deliberate. “I’m looking for something new. Something raw. Something worth breaking.”

The mob erupts. Hands grab at you, shoving you forward, chanting louder: In the pit! In the pit!

Rig gestures, and the two broken fighters crawl out of the ring, heads bowed, blood dripping from their mouths like offerings. The dirt is cleared for you. For him.

“You didn’t come here to watch,” Rig growls as he pulls himself into the pit. “You came here to belong. Don’t bother denying it. I’ve been watching you longer than you think. The way you flinch when I pass. The way you breathe when my eyes hit you. You’ve been begging for this without saying a word.”

He circles you now, boots grinding into the dirt, the crowd pressing in like a living wall. “This isn’t just a fight. This is a baptism. A test. A chance to prove what I already know — that under all that uniform, all that pretending, you’re just another fag waiting for me to carve the truth out of you.”

His fists flex, tape cracking. The smell of sweat and iron fills your lungs. “I’ll give you the crowd. I’ll give you the pain. But when you’re on your knees in this dirt, shaking, spitting blood, begging me to stop—” Rig’s grin widens, merciless “—that’s when I’ll give you the real prize. That’s when you’ll learn why all my pets crawl back to me, why they fight for the right to lick the floor at my feet.”

The mob is chanting again, shaking the bleachers. Fight. Fight. Fight.

Rig steps so close your chests almost collide, heat and violence rolling off him. “Don’t look away,” he growls. “Look at me. You’re mine tonight. I’m not here to knock you down — I’m here to drag the fag out of you in front of every eye in this yard.”

He spits into the dirt, raising his fists. “Welcome to my pit. Welcome to Rig. Let’s see how loud you scream when I break you open.”