This fight wasn't supposed to happen.
Desmond's vision blurred as another fist cracked against his ribs. The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent him stumbling backward into the chain-link fence. The crowd's hungry thirst for violence and blood manifested itself as relentless roars that pressed down on him, distorted and distant through the ringing in his ears.
But intense enough to make his skin crawl.
Stay down. Take the fall. Collect your pay.
That had been the deal.
A simple dive in the third round, convincing enough to satisfy the bookies, and clean enough to avoid suspension.
Easy money.
Enough for today's debt to be covered after paying rent.
And maybe, just maybe if his body could still move, he would finish another chapter of the novel gathering dust on his laptop.
But Bebe wasn't following the script.
The next punch came fast. It whistled past Desmond's ear as he jerked his head to the side. His heart slammed against his chest at the close shave, reigniting the throbbing ache all over his body.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
That was too close!
His opponent's eyes held none of the calculated restraint they had agreed on in the locker room. Only cold, murderous intent.
"Bebe—" Desmond gasped, trying to create distance, "—what the hell—"
A knee drove into his stomach, sending a jarring pain that stabbed through to his back. Desmond doubled over, clutching his stomach as his mouth quickly filled with blood.
Bebe grabbed Desmond's head with one hand and with a hiss, Desmond jabbed at him, only for the downward strike of Bebe's elbow to crack against Desmond's temple.
Flashes of black dotted his vision, and the world tilted.
Fuck!
This wasn't the plan.
This wasn't part of any plan!
Desmond's instincts screamed at him to fight back, but his body wouldn't cooperate. His martial arts training, years of discipline, technique, and precision, suddenly felt like a distant memory as his legs buckled.
He tried to raise his guard, to slip the next blow, but big Bebe was relentless.
A punch to the jaw.
Another to the ribs.
A third jab that split his eyebrow and sent hot blood streaming down his face.
The referee should have stopped it by now. Someone should have called this fight already. But through his swimming vision, Desmond could see the man standing at the edge of the cage, arms crossed, watching. Waiting.
These bastards are all in on it!
The realization hit harder than any punch.
Adrenaline surged through him. Desmond twisted away from Bebe's next strike and drove his shoulder into the bigger man's chest. The hit connected, right at the center, and just for a moment, he had created an opportunity.
He wasn't going to die here.
At the very least, if he was going to get a beatdown, he could not just stay there and suck up hits like that.
His body moved on instinct and muscle memory took over. He ducked under a wild swing and planted his feet, channelling his strength into a counter-punch that caught Bebe square in the gut.
Bebe grunted and stumbled back a step.
The crowd erupted.
But Desmond's brief victory lasted only seconds. His vision darkened at the edges and his legs threatened to give out.
He had already taken too much damage.
And this was his last match of the night.
Not now, damn it!
Bebe's expression twisted with fury. He charged forward, and Desmond tried to dodge only to be slow a millisecond too late.
The kick caught him in the side. Something inside him cracked.
Desmond hit the concrete hard, his head connecting with the hard surface. A jolt shot down his spine and he gasped, his body refusing to obey any command to rise. The harsh concrete pressed against his cheek, rough and stained with old blood. His own blood joined it now as a growing pool beneath him.
Bebe loomed over him, fist raised for another strike.
"That's enough." A low authoritative voice cut through the chaos.
Desmond could tell it didn't belong to the referee.
"He's still moving," another one responded in a cold, low hiss. "Finish it!"
What the hell did I even do? I did everything you all freaking asked!
Desmond tried to speak, but all that slipped out of his mouth was a wet groan. His chest burned with each shallow breath. Something was definitely broken inside. Multiple things.
Shit…
He wondered, like he had wondered for several nights now over the past year, if this was really how it was all going to end?
An aspiring writer who had never finished a book.
A fighter who had never made it out of the underground.
No family. No legacy. Just another body in a cage, dying for someone else's profit.
The final blow came before he could process the thought.
Bebe's fist slammed into the side of his head with the full weight of his body behind it. The impact snapped Desmond's neck to the side and drove his skull against the concrete.
Light fractured into a thousand jagged pieces. The roars of the crowd became a high-pitched whine that drilled into his brain. And lastly, the overwhelming, all-consuming pain simply stopped.
His consciousness flickered like a dying bulb.
In that final moment, floating in the space between life and death, he felt something strange. Like he was being pulled back through water with invisible hands that reached into his chest and pulled.
Then there was nothing.
Just darkness.
Desmond floated in it, weightless and formless. He no longer felt any pain. He didn't even feel his body.
He felt nothing.
What is this?... Am I... dead?
The thought drifted through his consciousness like smoke. He tried to move, but there was nothing for him to move. He couldn't even feel his fingers, and he quickly came to the realisation that he felt no physical form, but a simple awareness trapped in a dark, endless void.
What is going on? I was just in the ring. Then the concrete, and all that… blood.
The memories felt distant now, like something that had happened to someone else. But they were his. He was certain of that much.
He chuckled.
This must be death.