Page 154 of Broken Pieces
We push closer to the cage, shoulder to shoulder with people who don’t flinch when blood sprays. People who lean in when bones crack.
They came for the sound of fists on flesh. For the sight of a man crumpling under the weight of another. For pain, they don’t have to feel themselves.
There’s a fight on.
One guy’s built like a tank, head shaved clean, veins bulging across his neck. Arms thick enough to snap bones without effort.
The other’s lean. Quick. A blur of tension and twitching muscle. His face is a mess—nose smashed flat, one eye already swelling shut, blood dripping from a split across his cheek.
There’s something unhinged in the way he moves. Controlled chaos. He’s not fighting for money. He’s here for something else. Something darker.
There’s no ref. No gloves. No one intervenes when things go too far. Just fists, feet, elbows, knees. Whatever it takes to end it fast and brutally.
The crowd is pressed tight against the cage, packed shoulder to shoulder, shouting over each other, fists raised with money clutched tight and betting on pain. On who bleeds first. On who doesn’t get the fuck back up.
They’re not here for sport.
They’re here for blood.
I watch.
The big guy lunges, all brute force and bad intentions. His fist tears through the air, aimed straight for the wiry guy’s skull. But he’s too slow. The lean guy moves smoothly, slipping beneath the arm. Next comes the strike.
A vicious knee, driven up hard into the big bastard’s ribs. The crack echoes across the cage, loud enough to sound over the crowd. The big man stumbles, arms sagging for just a second.
The smaller fighter closes in. No hesitation. Elbow to the temple—fast and savage. Bone meeting bone. The bigger man reels, eyes dull, legs already losing ground. Blood spits from his mouth.
A pivot kick to the head that snaps sideways. Spraying blood through the crowd before he goes down hard.
Shouts. Cheers. All of it drowned beneath the roar that follows.
His body hits the concrete with a dull thud. No twitch. No breath. Arms sprawled wide, mouth open, eyes glazed over.
The crowd explodes, fists in the air, shoving each other, voices colliding as bets are cashed in and names are shouted across the ring.
A man from the back steps forward. No expression. No rush. Rubber gloves already on, apron streaked with dried blood. He moves into the cage, grabs the body by the ankles, and starts dragging him out.
No one stops him. No one checks for a pulse.
The next fighter’s already heading through the cage door, bare-chested, knuckles taped, eyes scanning the blood-slick floor.
Griff leans in. “Different breed in here, huh?”
“Did that fucking kill him?”
“Nah. He’s still breathing. Barely.”
“Jesus.”
Griff chuckles. “Don’t go soft on me now, Zane. You want fast cash. This is where it lives.”
A man in a navy suit steps toward us. Italian cut. Tailored. Too clean for this place.
“Griff,” he says, voice smooth and wrong. “Is this your guy?”
Griff nods. “Zane Rivera. Kid doesn’t lose.”
The man sizes me up. “You street fight?”
