Alex walked back to his apartment, head bowed, his thoughts racing. The events of the day kept playing over and over in his mind like a broken reel. Every word, every glance, every moment—it all echoed inside him with deafening intensity.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath. "I shouldn't have acted like that. I should've had more self-control."
His fists clenched at his sides, trembling with frustration and guilt. The anger that surged inside him earlier still lingered, burning like hot coals beneath his skin. He hated losing control. Hated the part of him that came alive when things went wrong.
Once he reached his apartment, he slammed the door shut behind him, stripped out of his clothes, and changed into a black hoodie and ripped jeans. His hands fumbled with the keys to his motorcycle. Without a second thought, he turned around and left again, unable to sit still.
As he walked toward his bike, the sharp click of his boots on pavement echoed in the quiet night. He pulled out his phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his sharp features. He scrolled through his contacts and tapped the number.
The phone rang twice before a gravelly voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Coach, get me a fight tonight," Alex said, his voice tight and low.
"Hey, hey, slow down, kiddo," Coach replied. "What's going on? I thought we agreed—you were gonna quit. Focus on racing, stay clean."
"Please, Coach," Alex interrupted, his voice trembling slightly. "Just get me a fight. Tonight."
There was a pause on the other end, the silence thick with concern. Coach knew that tone. He'd heard it before—on nights when Alex came back from something too painful to speak about, nights when he couldn't hold back the darkness inside him.
Coach sighed. "Alright. Be here before seven."
Alex didn't say another word. He ended the call, slipped on his helmet, and straddled his black motorcycle. The engine roared to life beneath him, vibrating through his bones like thunder. He gripped the handlebars tightly and sped off into the city streets, the cold wind slicing against his face as the bike gained speed.
He didn't stop. Didn't slow down. The engine screamed under him as he pushed it harder, faster, as if he could outrun his own thoughts. The only sound he could hear now was the pounding of his heart and the wind howling in his ears.
When he finally arrived at the underground arena, the sun had already dipped below the horizon. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and the scent of adrenaline. The sound of fists hitting flesh echoed off the concrete walls as fighters trained or fought in the cage at the center of the warehouse.
Coach spotted him immediately.
He walked over, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as he took in Alex's appearance—dark circles under his eyes, hunched posture, and a wild energy radiating off him like a dangerous storm.
"You look like hell, pretty boy," Coach said gruffly. "You sure you're up for this?"
Alex said nothing. His deep brown eyes, usually calm and unreadable, flickered with something darker. He wasn't here for fun. He was here because he needed to let it out—before it consumed him.
Coach sighed again. "You've got the Devil's look in your eyes tonight, kid. I don't like it."
Alex didn't flinch. He simply walked past him and towards the locker room.
"You go in there with your mind clouded like that," Coach called after him, "you're either gonna get your ass kicked or you'll kill someone. Don't make me regret this."
But Alex was already gone.
He changed quickly, wrapping his knuckles in black tape, his fingers moving on instinct. He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink—at the boy he'd become. The boy with no parents. No family. Just a cold apartment, a battered bike, and fists that had seen too much blood.
This was how he survived. Street fights, races, and school. Coach had found him when he was barely ten, living out of a broken-down trailer, hungry and wild-eyed. Coach had taught him everything—how to fight, how to ride, how to hide the pain and keep moving forward.
He owed the man everything.
But tonight wasn't about gratitude. It was about release.
The announcer's voice boomed through the warehouse, calling his name.
"Next up—The Pretty Boy Killer! Make some noise for Alex!"
The crowd roared. Some cheered, others jeered, but they all leaned forward in anticipation. Alex had built a reputation here. Despite his lean build and almost ethereal beauty, his opponents had learned to fear him. He didn't flinch. He didn't speak. And when he fought—he fought like a demon.
He stepped into the cage, his body loose, his breathing slow. Across from him stood a man easily twice his size. Tattooed arms, bulging muscles, and a scar that ran from his temple down to his neck. The man sneered at Alex.
"You sure you're in the right place, pretty boy?" he taunted. "I don't wanna break your little doll face."
Alex didn't respond.
The bell rang.
In an instant, the man charged forward, throwing a wild right hook aimed at Alex's jaw.
Alex ducked.
The man's fist hit air. Alex countered with a lightning-quick jab to the ribs, followed by a sharp elbow to the chin. The man staggered, caught off guard by the speed and precision.
The crowd roared again.
He came back with a vengeance, swinging left and right, trying to corner Alex. But Alex moved like smoke—slipping, dodging, weaving between the strikes like a shadow. Every time the man missed, Alex landed a hit—a knee to the gut, a punch to the throat, a kick to the side.
Blood spattered on the mat.
The man finally landed a blow—a heavy punch to Alex's shoulder that sent him stumbling.
The crowd gasped.
But Alex didn't fall.
His head snapped back toward his opponent, eyes blazing. Something inside him broke loose. He lunged forward, fists flying. Left, right, left, elbow, knee. Every strike was fueled by rage, pain, grief. He saw not just his opponent, but every ghost that haunted him.
He beat the man down, fists covered in blood, until the referee had to pull him off.
The fight was over.
Alex stood in the middle of the ring, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face. The crowd was silent. Even they could feel the violence behind that performance.
He left the cage without a word, pushing past the others, ignoring the stares. He walked back to the locker room, bloodied, bruised, but somehow calmer.
Coach waited for him at the exit.
"You scare me sometimes, kid," he said softly. "You fight like you got nothing left to lose."
Alex looked up at him, the fire in his eyes dimmed now. "Maybe I don't."