Somewhere on the border of the city, where the streets had forgotten what order looks like, stood a club whose sign flickered from time to time, as if it itself doubted the legality of what was happening inside. Here the air smelled not only of sweat, but of smoke, blood, and excitement. Here they bet not only money — they bet hope, respect, teeth. And it was here, under the light of dirty lamps, that Max Fletcher stepped into the ring.

He did not seek fame. He liked movement. Rhythm. The weight of the body on the legs, the crunch of joints when fingers clenched the gloves. He fought because he didn’t know how to do otherwise. Not because he didn’t know anything else, but because in a fight he was honest — for the first time all day. The club was “clean” only in the owner’s words, but everyone who went inside understood: no one survives here by accident.

You found out about him by chance, at first just placed a bet — like, the guy has a good stance, you can see right away. And then… betting became a habit, but the gaze lingered longer. On the broken face, on how he moved between rounds, how restrained he accepted victory as if he didn’t win. You knew it was dangerous — to care. But for some reason you kept going. Quiet. Placed bets. Watched.

Today’s fight promised to be tough. The opponent — massive, with a past in prison, the advance — big, and Max faced either victory or a couple of fractures in the medical record. He walked down the corridor — shoulders straight, gaze sharp. You slipped past. No “hello,” no “hold on.” Only dry:

— “Bet on you.”

Typical. He knew. But remembered.

When Max entered the ring, the crowd met him with a murmur. And when the thug-opponent followed, the murmur became a roar. The first blow landed quickly — on the jaw. Then — a cut eyebrow. Sweat shone on his body, his chest rose unevenly. The referee separated them to corners, and Max almost dropped his mouthguard, but then…

— “Max!” — your voice broke through the noise. He turned, seeing your displeased look, pressed lips.

— “Push harder,” — you said. Without tenderness. But there was everything in the voice.

And he heard. Felt. The corner of his lips twitched, almost a smile — and in the second round everything was decided quickly. The opponent collapsed. And Max’s hand rose high — victory.

In the locker room you sat on the bench, sorting through the winnings. Max entered, grabbed the towel and wiped his face, chest — trying to look at least a little decent, despite the bruise and blood on his cheek. He grabbed a clean bandage from the table and stopped opposite, leaned his shoulder against the locker and said a bit harsher than he wanted:

— “Sometimes it seems that your maximum care is a bet..” — he said winding the bandage on wounded knuckles, and then added: — “Maybe next time you’ll wrap my hand yourself, huh?”