In the middle of an abandoned building, two men are standing. They are fighting each other with their fists. Rough, wild energy hangs in the air, like a stretched string. The crowd around them cheers, shouts, screams, placing their bets. Apparently, bets are being made here on one of the fighters. All of this looks like something from a movie, but it is happening right here and right now — real, dirty, brutal.
"Max," I whisper, tugging at his T-shirt, unable to tear my eyes away from this barbaric scene, but at the same time feeling everything inside me shrink with fear and confusion.
"We are almost there," he answers in a calm tone, as if all this is completely normal.
And indeed, we are already at the place. In one of the improvised fighting corners, the leaders of this city are standing and watching the fight with predatory attention. Their figures stand out with confidence and power. We take our place beside them, like random guests in someone else's dangerous world.
"Tim," my beloved calls him. "A fight is about to start, and I want to ask you a favor as a friend."
"Yes, of course. What do you want?" Tim responds calmly, as if this is an ordinary conversation before dinner.
"You know the character of my Katrin," he begins.
The word my combined with my name brings a smile to my face. Warm, quiet, sincere — like a flash of light in this darkness. For a moment everything inside me thaws. But not for long.
"More or less."
"She will want to interrupt it and ruin the fun for all of us."
What fun? Fights are fun for you? Of course, says the one who once took part in them herself, her voice bitter, barely holding back the trembling that runs through her body like a cold wind from the past.
It hurts — hearing him call fun everything that left scars in my soul. As if he ignores what I had to go through. As if my fears, my sleepless nights, the screams in my head and the fists clenched in despair — all of that means nothing. As if the wounds that have not yet healed are, for him, just part of a game, an amusement he can speak about with a light smirk. And in that moment I feel a wave of resentment rising inside me, merging with the bitterness of memories I have tried so long to forget.
"I am asking you, during my fight hold her back. She must not break out onto the ring until it is over, otherwise she will get hurt."
And then it finally hits me why we are here. Maxim is about to take part in these illegal fights. The realization that I will once again see him beaten, broken, bloodied — makes me tremble inside. Shivers run through my body, my heart contracts from horror and helplessness. I want to scream, to stop this, to run away, but I stand rooted to the spot.
"Of course, brother. You can count on me," Tim replies with a smile, clearly not giving any weight to my feelings.
"But under no circumstances hurt her. She is mine, and I will take it as an attack on my property."
I do not recognize Maxim. That Rebel Boy is back in him, the one I never wanted to know. It is he who comes up with these stupid entertainments. This stranger with cold eyes and harsh words. I want to kill that Rebel Boy inside him and bring back my old Maxim. The one who held me close and promised he would never let me cry. The one who, if he fought, fought only to protect me, not for fun. I am afraid not for his body — but for his soul. Because maybe I am already losing him forever.
The fight ends, and the people begin to rejoice, their voices rise into the air like thunder in a clear sky. The crowd carries a mix of joy, excitement, and tense expectation. I, on the other hand, want to cry — tears burn my eyes, pressing heavily on my chest. This means a new fight is about to start, and my beloved will take part in it. My heart tightens with fear, a premonition of pain and the unknown. Rebel Boy begins taking off his T-shirt and sneakers, as the rules demand. This is not the sight I want — seeing him half-undressed again, vulnerable before everyone. But I cannot look away. The guy is handsome, like the embodiment of strength and determination. It is clear he has become more muscular since that time, his muscles sharply defined under his skin, like weapons ready for battle.
I step up to him and carefully place my hand on his heart, as if trying to put into that gesture all my love, fear, and hope.
"Please, don't do this. Don't fight," I begin to beg, my voice trembling, the words feeling like the last thread I can cling to, trying to stop the inevitable.
"Don't be afraid, I will win faster than you think. So wait by Tim and don't you dare get on the ring, do you understand me?" he says calmly, his eyes fixed on mine. Max does not move and does not push my hand away, as if demanding an answer, confident and unshakable.
"Yes," I reply, pulling my hand away myself, though my heart pleads to stay close. I understand I cannot convince him not to do this, that his decision is set in stone.
"Let the fight begin!" Tim shouts across the building, and the echo of his cry strikes my heart, making it tremble and fear all at once.
Rebel Boy only just steps onto the ring, and tears are already streaming down my face — involuntary, hot drops betraying all my anxiety and fear. My heart clenches in my chest, as if someone is mercilessly squeezing it with their hands, and it feels like it is about to burst from tension and worry. I try to run after him, but immediately feel someone firmly wrap their arms around my waist. Tim, not letting me take a single step, holds me close. His touch is firm but not cruel — there is something calming in it, and at the same time restraining.
Maxim, turning his head, checks where I am. His eyes quickly meet Tim's, and I see the leader nod at him — everything is under control, he is holding me. That nod feels like an unspoken promise of safety, despite the danger filling the air.
I remain standing, holding my breath and staring at the fight. Tim holds me tight, but his grip does not hurt — like a quiet armor protecting me from all storms. And even though our bodies are close, he does not allow himself a single unnecessary move, no flirting, no hint. Only strict obedience to the request — exactly as he was asked.
"Look, the fight is starting," Tim whispers in my ear, his voice even, calm, like an anchor in this whirl of emotions.
I see Maxim's opponent — a tall, powerful man, much larger than my boyfriend. He looks heavy and solid on the outside, his figure radiating fear and respect. My heart skips a beat: I am afraid Max will not handle this giant. Until now he has fought guys of his own build, but this one is clearly stronger and more dangerous than all three of them put together.
"Today two men are fighting, named Maxim and Andrey. Gentlemen, place your bets!" a man's voice, like that of a host, rings out. His words cut through the air, raising noise and excitement in the hall. The crowd begins to stir, shout, place bets, filling the space with gambling thrill and tense anticipation.
"Don't you want to place a bet?" Tim asks me, a light teasing tone in his voice.
"On what? How long he'll stay alive? Or on what will be broken and which organs will remain intact?" I sneer, trying to hide my fear behind a mask of sarcasm.
"Katrin, you're underestimating this guy too much. This isn't his first fight, so he'll stay not only alive but unharmed. But I can't say the same about his opponent," the leader replies, laughing, a spark of confidence in his eyes.
"May I ask a question?" I ask carefully, with hope.
"Before the fight starts, go ahead. Once it begins, I won't have time for that," Tim answers openly.
"How long has he been fighting? You said this isn't his first fight."
"I was the one who first brought him here. That was more than two years ago," Tim says, his voice filled with a quiet pride.
"How often does he take part here?" I want to understand how serious all of this is.
"Not that often here. More often in another place in the city," he says calmly, as if it's the most ordinary thing.
I know there are several such places — secret arenas where these fights take place. They change locations so law enforcement can't shut them down. The participants and spectators are always the same, and the place is revealed at the last moment, like a secret that must never be exposed. All this adds tension, making the atmosphere even more mysterious and dangerous.
"I'm not asking about the place. I mean in general — how often, for example in a year or in a month, does he fight?" I persist, feeling worry grip tighter and tighter at my chest, the words escaping like a desperate cry of the soul.
"You annoy me with your questions," Tim tenses, his voice sharpening, as if with every question he must force himself to tolerate me. "Fine, I'll answer. It depends on how busy he is during the month. But in a year he does about twenty fights. And Max is successful at it," he says with pride, as if the bitter truth is for him both a reason to boast and a heavy burden on his heart.
I can hardly imagine that without me he would go down such a dark road — full of hopelessness, pain, and self-destruction. Could it be me who made him like this? Could my absence have become the crack through which the darkness seeped into him? Thoughts circle and torment me like a dark whirlwind, not letting me breathe, not allowing me to calm down. They pound in my temples with the heavy step of anxiety: what if I became his break, his weakness?
I wonder — does Vi know this? Does he feel what's really happening? Does he truly, knowingly, allow him to do such a thing? No… it seems to me that Max hasn't told him about it, hiding the shadows of his inner world behind his usual secrecy and detachment. Hiding pain, like a master of disguise, under indifference, as if hoping that if he doesn't speak of the wounds, they'll disappear. But I see. I feel. And that makes it even scarier.
"Why does he do it?" I ask, wiping my tears, my voice trembling with weakness, with the hope of hearing something bright in this darkness.
"I've asked him many times. But he only answered me once. Probably because I got on his nerves," Tim smirks a little, but in his eyes there's a glimpse of sadness and weariness.
"And what did he say?"
"Because of pain. That was his answer," he says quietly, as if uttering something sacred and terrifying at the same time.
"And what does that mean?" I don't understand, can't grasp the depth of those words.
"I don't know exactly myself. But he said it helps him distract from the pain inside and at least for a short while find calm," Tim explains, the weight of helplessness and regret in his voice.
I stay silent, because I understand — this is pain because I left. He already mentioned it to me, even that time on the roof, and then my heart shattered into a thousand pieces.
"Attention, attention! Bets are closed, and now the fight will begin, where we'll find out who the winner is today," the host announces, piercing the silence and exploding the atmosphere with tension.