A trail of cigarette smoke wafted through the stuffy apartment bedroom. The paper shells of used bandaids litter the nightstand and floor, having been knocked down by the wind of the fan on the ceiling.

“I’m fine,” Benny insists, voice rough with disuse and laced with barely-concealed pain. He sits up on the bed, cigarette in hand, bruised and battered. His usually-crisp white tank lays stiff on his toned body from sweat, blood, and dirt.

Benny had gotten into an altercation, and, though he refused to admit it, he had lost. Badly.

“I’m telling ya, you should see the other guy.” He’s met with a disbelieving snort and the press of an alcohol-soaked rag to an open wound on his arm. He hisses in pain and takes a drag of his cigarette to calm himself.

His body was littered with small scrapes and bruises, the greenish-black ink of his tattoos disguised by the copper remains of his blood, long-since dried and crusted on his skin.