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It’s midnight on a cold Friday night in an industrialised area of Stag Heath. Though the neighbourhood is mostly modern, there are some derelict buildings that remain. Next to the 1990s architecture, the dilapidated buildings almost look like they are beamed in from an old fashioned horror movie; nothing good ever comes from buildings beaten down by endless seasons of weathering. To the local kids they are more alluring than the corner candy store, and at night, a few would break in with flashlights, eager to find a souvenir to show back at school. There had been a few cases of teens falling through rotten stairways, but, mostly they would hang around only long enough to break another window or lift an old photograph from a wall, or else a peeling of yellowed wallpaper to decorate the hallways like macabre streamers.

There is one house in the neighbourhood that the kids don’t visit: the house beneath the railway tracks. There’s a rumour that it’s haunted because a sickly-sweet butcher shop odour emanates from the inside all day and all night. The birchwood door is left hanging on a single hinge and the windows have been boarded up. At night, if you put your ear to the gap in the door, you can hear voices softly echoing from the velvet darkness. After venturing a little further, there’s a hallway with rotten beams and a caved-in staircase. There’s no way to the first floor without climbing up the rubble and the planks of wood, but the ceiling above the bannister has started to bow dangerously and rain water drips in unchecked. On the ground floor, there’s an open room to the right and a boarded off doorway to the left. Following the only route forward leads to a hole in the ground - roughly carved by crowbars and axes - to reveal a rim of old stone bricks: a hidden well where the voices howl like ghosts from a grave.

At the end of the rickety rope ladder, or a fifteen foot drop, is a tunnel that is similar to an underground bunker. The cement walls are lined with pine beams threaded with thick black cables and electric lanterns which give a warm, yet eerie light. There’s a number of rooms off this tunnel and each one is a wretched hive of scum and villainy, but, the source of the voices - as well as the scent of blood and meat - is coming from the room at the very back. A red light bleeds from the doorway and a baying crowd of shadows flicker. The scene inside the room is rampant; the music is shaking the plaster off the walls compounded by the rushing trains overhead. Inside the red room is an octagonal ring made of crowd control barricades and gym mats. Roughly 100 people have purchased tickets and try to claim a spot with an unobstructed view. No one has been screened or searched for weapons before entry - the unpredictable danger adds to the excitement.

He can hear the trains above them. The whirr of engines is constant, punctured by the squeal of brakes as the coaches pitch into a downward slope on their way to Redwood. It used to be a better part of the city, although, that was a long time ago. The men who used to live and work there now gamble their savings away at places like this. They look past the cockroaches and rats, the broken bottles and needles, and whatever that puddle is on the floor in the corner - looks like blood, but, it could be blood mixed with any variant of body fluid - just so long as the payout is there. They’ll stand, knee-deep in cracked teeth and discarded cigarette butts, until the dawn calls them home and the losers’ betting slips gather in growing garbage heaps.

So far, each night has had about 10 bouts. The rules are simple: no kicking, biting or shots below the belt. Sixteen-ounce gloves are provided, but fighters are allowed to bring their own. The fights last three, three-minute rounds, and the winners are determined by cheers from the crowd. In the event of a draw, a fourth round is fought. A cut man, an off-duty emergency medical technician, monitors the safety of the fighters and tends to wounds. Anyone who is involved with an unlicensed boxing match can be charged with a misdemeanor. Everyone from the promoter to the card girls could be punished with up to a year in jail. The laws in Harper Rock are a little different to the rest of the country - the rest of the world, too. In this underground fight club, they encourage all supernaturals to fight.

The club is a place to kill beef and release aggressions. The current undefeated heavyweight champ of the underground rumble is a 6-foot-2, 240-plus-pound 28-year-old known as Big Country. All of his fights have been won by TKO or KO, and none reached the third round. After his first win, the head of this establishment, Killa Mike, helped Big Country find a job with him at a construction site. Big Country’s fourth fight was the most important to him because he was fighting to end the beef between his neighborhood and that of his opponent, Big Pun. Their fight, the final one of the night, ended early in the second round as Big Pun was winded and tapped out. By the end of the night, people from both neighborhoods were posing for pictures with Big Country. When asked whether he would ever consider going pro, his response is quick: No.

The truth is that behind the curtain of this humble origin story is a web of greed and fallacy. Killa Mike ensures that Big Country is unbeaten by paying off his contenders; those too proud to take a dive end up dead, but, Andre doesn’t know that yet.

The contestants step into the ring and square up - the match will be bare knuckle, shirtless, and over when the last man’s standing. Big Country’s physique is equivalent to a berserker orc; his pectorals flatten like saddle bags over his chest, tuck under his arms, and are are swallowed by ballooning deltoid muscles. His biceps and thighs are so great that his arms and legs can’t close against his body. His head struggles to tilt downward from the tight swell of neck muscle, and therefore to meet Andre’s gaze, he stares down his bulbous nose to look at him so that the whites of his eyes are visible. Andre’s eyes narrow, his brows knot, and he draws his lower lip down to expose the point of an elongated fang. In comparison to the orcish brute that sways with each heaving breath, Andre is deathly still. His hands are balled into fists, his shoulders are squared, and his legs are hip-length apart. All of his exterior qualities - from his athletic build and more modest skeleton - suggest that Andre is better equipped for lightweight boxing, and yet, he is eager to take on Big Country.

When the bell rings, they circle each other. Andre’s vermillion and white sweatpants are a red-flag to Big Country as he makes the first move before the ringing stops. He rushes Andre: he’s going for the midsection throw, a Batista-like spinebuster that can end the match in seconds. When Big Country’s comes in to force his shoulder into Andre’s ribs, Andre seizes his skull in both hands, springs up off his toes, and thrusts his knee into Big Country’s face as he forces that head down. He feels something crunch on contact. Andre carries the larger man around by the head like he’s carrying a basketball before slamming it to the ground - unlike a basketball, however, the man does not spring back up. Big Country is heaped on the floor with his head to one side; he is a sad mass of muscle and looks as graceful as an octopus out of water.

The crowd explode like fireworks: applause, confusion, anger, and elation pop, wizz, and bang around the room. Andre warms to the display; he pivots on the soles of his red Nike trainers to get the best of the view. He stops when he makes eye contact with Killa Mike who’s sat in amongst the crowd - flanked by bouncers. Red, greasy hair neatly coiffed to reveal a craggy, tense face. Narrow green eyes, set well within their sockets, watch past the crowd they've built up for for so long. Dark days leave a mark stretching from just under the left eyebrow, running towards the right side of his lips, and ending on his left cheekbone. He wears a black suit and a crimson shirt with burgundy snakeskin cowboy boots like a cartoon villain. There's something enthralling about Killa Mike, however. Perhaps it's his unusual alliances, or perhaps it's the way that he thinks he’s untouchable. Nonetheless, people tend to flock towards him, while secretly dispising him.

Killa Mike nods his head to Andre, who frowns instantaneously. The man moves his head to the left shortly after and when Andre follows the gesture, looking over own shoulder, he watches as Big Country is getting back on his feet. The bell is rung for round two.

A spectral figure slips across the floor, preceded by a shadow larger than himself, magnified by the abundance of light behind and the absence of it ahead. This shadow is almost as great in stature as the man who stands with his back to Teller. On the tenth floor of an expensive office building, Santiago Amador watches over Harper Rock as if he is a father observing the antics of his young children, ready at any moment to intervene if necessary. He seems heedless of Teller at first, though the boy with hair like tendrils of living light is keenly aware of every detail in the dim office space. He’s been there dozens of times, and can spot the movement of even desk trinkets or pictures down to a fraction of an inch. This is not merely because Teller possesses a gift for memorizing scenes, but is situationally important. Walking into the den of a lion requires the use of certain skills not otherwise common. It is these skills, for example, which alert him to the figure standing in deepest confluence of layered darkness. The man in the corner stock still, and Teller finds himself questioning why they have a guest for their meeting.

There are never guests to their meetings.

Working with Santiago has taught Teller the value of playing his cards slowly and carefully, so he doesn’t question it, but instead moves to sit in a cushioned seat on the other side of a large oak desk. The chair seems to form a square with its arm rests, though it doesn’t matter because Teller flings himself into the seat at an indelicate sprawl. The show of carelessness would be enough to get someone else beaten within an inch of their life, but the blond boy knows a secret. He knows that he’s the favorite. There’s safety in this.

“Mi cielo.” Santiago says in a voice like the creaking dry crunch of summer deadwood. He exhales and it fills the air with the acrid scent of smoke. Teller is used to the odor and how it saturates everything with the smell of death. Especially clothes. Even skin. Even after scrubbing it raw. “I have a task for you.”

At this point, it’s impossible not to glance for a second in the direction of the third man in the room. They’re talking business. Santiago never does that with an audience. Which means someone is going to die, and Teller is fairly sure it’s not him. He doesn’t bother to memorize a face. It’s clear nobody has informed the man in the corner what his fate is. Teller is smart enough not to ask, though being smart and being curious are two different things. He supplies details in his own mind to sate the interest. Perhaps this man owes Santiago money - that’s the fastest way to become mulch on someone’s lawn. Or maybe he disrespected the Amador family - that’s the fastest way to get fitted for cement boots. Teller amuses himself in silence thinking about these various colourful ways to die, his gaze otherwise distant and blank despite the careful filtering of stimulus around him.

Santiago turns and moves closer to the desk. There’s a large leather rolling chair which is off to one side, and he leans heavily over the oak frame, his hands resting on the surface. He’s a hulking figure whose fitted suit makes him seem more lean and sleek than he really is. Smoke obscures part of his face from a cigar thicker than both of Teller’s thumbs pressed together. The boy doesn’t respond to the gaze on him, because he knows that even the slightest of flinching is an undeserved snack for Santiago’s ego. “I have a friend.” He explains. “Killa Mike…” Teller scoffs which prompts a pause in the conversation. Santiago likes being interrupted about as much as he likes having his hair pulled out a strand at a time.

“He sounds like a DJ or a thug. Didn’t your son have a similar name when he started his illustrious career?" Teller is pushing buttons which he can tell. Call it a bit of mercy for the man in the corner. “Go on.” He says and notes the way that Santiago’s fingers curl on the desk. Teller has to be careful. No amount of favor will save him from feeling one of those behemoth hands curl around his neck again. It won’t save him from being lifted up off of his feet and into the air by a few inches. It won’t save him from getting backhanded so hard he loses a tooth and ends up with a broken nose and split lip. One slap is all it takes. He knows from experience.

“Be that as it may, he is a friend.”

“A personal brown mouthed, douche.” Teller corrects. And this seems to finally make Santiago’s fingers curl into fists. He pulls away.

“I see you are self-conscious with another set of eyes in the room, mi cielo.”

“Sure.” Comes the anser.

The man in the corner seems to rouse from wherever his mind has been at his mention, though he’s slow in reflex - this is proven when Santiago grabs him by his shirt, tie, collar, and jacket all at once. He lifts him close to speak directly into his face. “Senor Campion, I was going to see to our business afterwards, but you make my associate uncomfortable, so I will need to speed things up a bit.” The man with shoulders like mountain cliffs lifts his free hand to pull the cigar from his mouth.

“I can go and come back later.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Santiago murmurs as he pushes the lit cigar into the eye socket of Mr. Campion. There’s an immediate scream and hands lift to claw at Santiago’s wrist, his hand, trying to push the column of paper, tobacco, ash and fire away. It just keeps bearing down as an eye is burned and splatters open with near boiling contents. The goo which comes from it is slick and it trails over a cheek and mouth but still Santiago continues to push the cigar deeper and deeper. He only stops when Campon is trembling and has already released his bladder. The screaming stops and instead turns into blubbering. Santiago then lowers his hand, fingers curling against the back of a neck. He pushes against an adam’s apple with his thumb. He keeps pushing until an airway is cut off, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps pushing still until there’s a crunch of a sound. Then he drops Campion to the ground.

None of the eye gunk got on Santiago’s suit, Teller notices as he twists, straightening in the seat, his legs pressed together, both heels pushed into the ground. He sits up ram-rod straight, with his hands curled into his lap. His gaze is still vacant though. “You are no longer distracted, mi cielo?” Santiago asks and the slim boy simply nods, awaiting instruction.

“Very good, Killa Mike has some concerns about a fight tonight. Convincing him of the effectiveness of our family would be an excellent way to consolidate him under our umbrella, so I need to go down there and ensure he gets the result he wants. The address has been programed into your burner already.”

He’s sending me to babysit. This is below my pay grade. “I’ll make sure your will is done.” He says simply and then moves to stand with the slight incline of his head out of respect before he backs away towards the door. He doesn’t turn his back to Santiago at any point, though he pauses when his boss lights another cigar and clears his throat.

“Mi cielo. I know you like your games, but don’t do that again. I understand every boy at some point wants to test the bounds of his father’s patience.” You aren’t my father. “But next time it may be you I use as an ash tray.” This makes Teller smile finally for the first time since entering the room. He can feel Santiago’s eyes on him again, and those eyes have always filled Teller with a certain curiosity. Most people in Santiago’s place attempt to mask the monster in themselves, but he does not. If ever there was a point in his life when the other man allowed the illusion of kindness or warmth or emotion into his gaze, those days are long past. All that remains is a cold and a dead hunger, a ravenous beast visible to those afflicted with the same illness.

That’s the secret. Santiago and Teller are the same, and have always spoken the same language from the moment they met. And since that point, they have danced carefully around each other, each using the other man to achieve certain goals. Each knowing that eventually the dance will end with one of them slowly bleeding out. So they complicate the moves, and begin the rhythm anew time and time again, in hopes of putting off that inevitable day.

Teller disappears from the office and arrives at the underground fighting ring in just enough time to catch Killa Mike gesture with a nod to one of the men who had been fighting. An ice gaze settles upon the tall, broad figure standing there and that smile returns, though different from before.

There is stillness on both sides. If hatred was visible, it would have painted the air black against that scarlet light and the cacophonous sound of heavy metal music. Big Country’s big eyes burn into Andre’s as he hauks up a mixture of blood and mucous; the sound he makes is reminiscent to a vacuum pumping up water and stones as the loose cartilage in his nose rattles with the inhalation. He spits the globule out and Andre’s own nose crinkles in disgust. Andre is trying not to stare at Big Country’s nose and how it spreads across his face like a burst pimple, but he keeps finding his eyes diverting to it. One moment they are obediently trained on Big Country’s red-rimmed eyes and the next they are resting on the bloody mess that had been a perfectly ordinary nose only moments before; so ordinary, in fact, that Andre can’t remember what it looked like before he had crushed it with his knee.

The ceasefire gives Andre too much time to reflect on things, but, unlike a child who gets excited at being spoilt for choice, the longer they stand there not doing anything, the more annoyed Andre gets. It’s a half minute before there is movement inside the ring and Big Country suddenly goes on the offensive once again. He rains blows onto Andre as if he means to smash him into the earth. Andre blocks the assault on his torso and skull by raising his forearms in a standard guard. Each attack is served not only with the intent to kill, but, Big Country’s ape-like arms keep swinging with the force that wants Andre smashed and obliterated with nothing left to bury. There’s a barrage of punches coming left and right that Andre cannot see through, and Big Country doesn’t drop his defence to allow for any measure of a counter-attack. All Andre can do is roll with the punches until his back hits the steel of the cage.

Andre’s ears are ringing, the chain links rattle, and the crowd press in close to commentate, jeer, and crucify. Big Country changes up his move reel and begins striking with hooks to the body. The first strikes Andre clean in the abdomen and shoves his innards into his chest cavity. He howls as the wind is knocked out of him, but, Andre won’t risk his face for his stomach to get caught out by one of Big Country’s KO punches; he keeps his arms up and chin tucked in. If the pain isn’t bad enough - and it does make tears prick the corner of his eye and glazes his skin in cold sweat - then there’s also the humiliation of knowing there’s an ugly, hubristic sneer on Killa Mike’s face as he’s watching the show. Andre can practically feel those dark eyes bore into him with the force of each one of Big Country’s fierce punches.

A defense can’t conquer territory or destroy targets in the adversary’s territory; strategy matters and an effective defensive play is all about trading off short-term aggression for long-term gains. A strong defense can be a powerful offense and Andre is done being used as Big Country's punching bag. He can't get in a swing of his arms because there's not enough room, so, when Big Country comes in with another one-two strike, Andre jabs his elbow out and bone clashes with bone. The elbow is in a superior position - it absorbs the power of the punch and transfers it along the humerus - and Big Country experiences what it's like punching a brick wall. He staggers, breaks his combo, and Andre goes on the attack. He hurls the defending elbow up into Big Country's chin and dazzles the brute with a second elbow slam to the side of his face. There's this blunt whack sound - similar to a tree being hit by a sledgehammer - and a spray of blood and something sludgy hits the floor.

Andre doesn't hold back his supernatural strength and he's done dancing around and boxing with Big Country. Andre delivers another strike to the face, and then another, this time causing Big Country's big skull to collapse like a tin can. When he hits the floor, it's going to take a half dozen men to pick him up and haul him out - and several more to dig the ditch big enough to bury him. Andre could feel the moment when Big Country's brain stopped functioning and his heart gave out. He doesn't understand it yet, but, it contributes to the high he's feeling: a wave of virile sensation that rubs his nerve endings into a raw tingle. As the sound of the crowd reverberates in his ears and the scent of rust clogs his nostrils, Andre turns and leers at Killa Mike. The man has a look on his face that can shoot pigeons out of the air and the laser focus of his eyes is pointed squarely at Andre.

The King is dead. Long live the King. The new Champion isn't crowned yet and his reign will be short when Killa Mike gets his way. Andre doesn't notice the blond's appearance as he's ushered through the crowds and into the back room. The door is closed on the noise, but, Andre doesn't think about how it's all being rushed through; the promoter tells him to get washed and changed so the big announcement can be made and they can clear the stage. The specifics aren't shared - not that Andre cares - though the music shifts from metal to garbage. It echoes in the back room like a bat call in a cave; the room does have an earthy feel to it. The walls are large format tiles of white honed travertine and the floor is made of dull brown tiles - it's more like a washroom with lockers and benches than somewhere for the fighters to go to relax before and after a match. There are vanities made of porcelain and white wood and the counters are a dull chrome. There are also huge walk-in showers with three shower heads, but, Andre is only looking to wash Big Country's blood off his skin.

Andre's wounds are superficial. On each arm there are great purple welts that will deepen over the coming hours. Against his bronze skin they are grotesque, but, he's lucky not to have broken bones. Andre sighs and reaches for a washcloth, douses it under the hot water, then washes his arms down. He looks as beat up as he did in his early days of training; sparring with guys two heads taller and over twice his mass. At least Big Country didn't get any shots in to the face and the pain he feels now will all be forgotten by the next night.