Page 155 of Broken Pieces
“Used to.”
“Ever lose?”
I meet his eyes. “Never.”
He nods once. “You fight for me, and I’ll pay you.”
“How much?”
He smiles slowly, a grin that stretches too wide, the kind that says he already thinks he owns me. “You win, first fight’s five grand.”
I feel a tightening in my chest.
Five K. To them, it’s pocket change. A number thrown around without thought. A drunk night out. A tip to a dealer.
But to me… It’s more than survival. It’s a step toward freedom, towards standing on my own without feeling as if I owe everyone.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, eyes locked on the man in front of me.
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“You lose, you don’t get shit. Simple. You win I get 10% of the earnings” He takes a step closer, voice dropping low. “You throw a fight and I’ll fucking come for you.”
Then he looks back towards the cage, where another fighter steps inside.
“You win fair,” the man says. “And you walk out with more cash than you’ve ever seen in your fucking life.”
Griff slaps my shoulder. “Told you it was worth showing up.”
I don’t answer. My eyes stay fixed on the cage.
They don’t wait for a bell. No count. No rules. Just charge.
A blur of fists, knees and pure fucking violence explodes inside the cage. The crowd loses its shit, pounding on the cage, screaming for more.
Maybe this is a bad idea. Or it’s fucking suicide.
But five grand says I don’t care. And there’s something in me that’s been aching to hit something for weeks.
“Yeah, alright.” I say.
The second the words leave my mouth, everything shifts.
Griff’s grin stretches wide. He mutters something to the guy in the suit, some wordless deal sealed between men who’ve seen too much. He jerks his chin for me to follow.
I do, even though my gut twists as if I’ve stepped into something I won’t be climbing back out from.
We move through the crowd, pushing past the noise and the heat. Fists full of cash flash in the air, money changing hands faster than blood hits the floor. We pass women draped across the arms of men in suits.
The crowd fades behind us.
Giff stops at the third door on the left.
“This one,” he says. “Don’t fuck it up, Zane.”
There’s something in his voice that sounds almost like a warning.
“They remember faces here.”
