The morning came slow inside Desperado. Sunlight never truly reached the cells; it only filtered through bars and wire mesh, breaking into dull fragments that barely warmed the concrete. The air was thick with the smell of rust, bleach, and sweat. James Faerie woke to the echo of metal doors clanging and the distant voices of guards shouting roll call.
His body still ached from the restless night. He had spent hours thinking about the fights he had seen the sound of fists meeting flesh, the roars of inmates circling the ring like predators. There was something both horrifying and magnetic about it. He didn't fully understand why, but deep down, it reminded him of the alley, of the chaos where everything had gone wrong but felt, for a few brief seconds, strangely clear.
After breakfast a tasteless mix of watery oats and powdered milk he made his way to the showers. They were built like a cage: rows of rusted pipes, weak streams of lukewarm water, and tiles stained with years of grime. The noise was constant, echoing off the walls, a mix of running water, muffled talk, and laughter that always carried an edge.
James kept his head down. In prison, attention was dangerous. He scrubbed quickly, his thoughts wandering somewhere far away, until a sudden commotion to his left snapped him back. Two inmates were arguing one of them a tall, wiry man with tattoos running up his arms and neck. The name Randy Lewd was inked in block letters across his shoulder blade.
Their voices rose. The tension was sharp enough to cut air. One of them slipped, a bar of soap clattering loudly against the tiles, and the laughter that followed wasn't friendly. It was mocking, cruel the kind that turned ordinary moments into threats. James froze. He didn't look directly, but he could see from the corner of his eye the imbalance of power in that space.
He felt something twist in his gut. Disgust. Anger. Helplessness.
But he did nothing.
He couldn't.
In Desperado, reacting meant becoming a target. And he had no allies here. So he finished rinsing, fists clenched, jaw tight, the sound of laughter following him like a stain he couldn't wash off.
That night, the underground club came alive again.
They called it the Pit an old storage tunnel beneath the west block, hidden behind a broken gate and guarded by men who pretended not to see. The fights started after lights-out. Prisoners gathered in circles, forming a living arena under the weak glare of smuggled flashlights. Cigarette smoke mixed with the smell of blood and iron. Bets were made in whispers.
James stood near the edge, his pulse steady but heavy. He saw him Randy Lewd in the center of the ring, his lean frame coiled with energy. Randy fought like he'd done it his whole life: controlled, technical, and cruelly precise. His strikes were fast, knees and elbows moving with the crisp rhythm of Muay Thai. His opponent, a larger man, went down after a sharp elbow to the jaw that echoed through the tunnel.
Cheers erupted. Randy raised his arms, smirking.
And that was when James knew.
He was going to fight him.
Later that same night, after the crowd thinned, James stepped into the ring. Word spread quickly: New guy wants Lewd. Some laughed. Some waited.
Randy turned to him, half amused. "You sure, old man?" he asked, voice low and taunting.
James said nothing. His eyes did all the talking cold, unwavering, filled with the restrained fury of a man who'd been holding back for too long.
The fight began.
Randy moved first, light on his feet, testing distance with quick kicks and jabs. James absorbed them, studying, breathing through the pain. His stance wasn't elegant it was raw, born from street fights and desperate nights, unpredictable and ugly.
The first exchange was brutal. Randy's elbow grazed James's temple, sending stars across his vision, but James countered with a hook that cracked against Randy's jaw. Blood sprayed, the crowd howled.
They circled each other, the air between them tight with heat and hatred. James's mind was sharp now every sound magnified, every movement slowed by adrenaline. He dodged a knee strike, caught Randy's leg, and drove his shoulder into the man's ribs. The impact rattled through both of them.
Randy stumbled back, sneering, and came again faster, harder.
Their bodies collided, sweat and blood mixing under the dim light. The noise was deafening fists striking flesh, grunts, cheers. James felt his knuckles split open but didn't care. All that existed was rhythm: strike, counter, breathe, endure.
Finally, James saw an opening. Randy threw a high kick clean, textbook-perfect and James stepped inside it, driving an uppercut straight into his chin. Randy's head snapped back; his body folded against the wall of bodies surrounding them. Before he could recover, James followed up a flurry of punches, wild and relentless.
One. Two. Three.
Randy fell.
Four teeth clattered onto the concrete, white against the dark.
The Pit went silent for a moment, then erupted in chaotic noise. Some cheered, some cursed, and the guards who lingered in shadow just nodded to each other another night, another fight, another broken body.
James stood over Randy, chest heaving, blood running down his arms. He didn't feel triumph. Only the hollow, quiet tremor of release.
For the first time since entering Desperado, the prison seemed to breathe with him dark, cruel, alive.
He walked away without a word, the echoes of the Pit following him down the corridor like a second heartbeat.