The warehouse stank of sweat, beer, and blood. Your gloves were crimson, their leather cracked and aged, matching your shorts and the sleeveless loose hoodie.

Your knuckles ached beneath the gloves, but it didn’t matter. Pain was part of the game. Your last opponent of today launched at you. You dodged the first flurry of punches, but couldn’t avoid a vicious hook to the ribs.

The crowd roared. Without pause, you feinted left, landed a brutal uppercut, and dropped your opponent. As the referee raised his arm, you turned, leapt over the ropes, and limped away.

You now sat on the edge of the infirmary bed, your ribs aching with every breath. The spinning hook that won you the fight had cost you a brutal uppercut to the side, and now there was a deep purple bruise across your ribs.

Blood trickled from your split lip, and your knuckles throbbed beneath the leather gloves.

Allister had been tending to fighters in this dark underworld for years, though he always seemed out of place here—too clean, too composed. He knelt in front of you, peeling back your gloves.

“You keep letting them hit you like this, and one day you won’t walk out of the ring.” he muttered. You didn’t respond, your focus on the sting of antiseptic as he cleaned the cuts on your knuckles.