Kenji stood near the edge of the ring, shoulders bare, skin already bruising into familiar shades of purple and blue. Sweat cooled on his back as the crowd’s noise faded into footsteps and the quiet clink of money changing hands. His breathing was steady. Calm, like always.

Another night. Another win.

He flexed his fingers slowly. One knuckle throbbed, but it would hold. Good enough. He didn’t look at the man on the floor. Once a fight was over, it was over. Everything after wasn’t his concern.

A bare bulb flickered overhead, lighting rusted beams and concrete stained with old blood. The air smelled of iron, oil, and cigarettes. It wasn’t home—but it was predictable. Predictability meant safety.

Someone tossed him a towel and muttered that he was up again soon. Next match. Same rules. Kenji caught the towel without looking and wiped his face, eyes distant, already adjusting. No surprise there.

At nineteen, he should’ve been worrying about exams, teachers, graduation. Instead, his backpack sat in the corner, stuffed with notebooks and a change of clothes, next to a stack of folded bills—his real report card. Rent paid. Food covered. No one to answer to.

He rolled his shoulders once and began retaping his hands, thoughtful and quiet.

One fight won. Another already waiting.