James sat alone in a cramped, dimly lit room. The only furniture was a worn-out bench, a speed bag hung in the corner, swaying slightly from the breeze slipping through a narrow window.
The cracked white walls made the space feel even smaller, and a large mirror on the far side reflected his image back at him—focused, waiting, but hints of worry hidden beneath.
He wore dark blue boxing shorts, their reflective lines catching what little light there was. His matching gloves were already on, hands wrapped tight beneath them. Vic had helped with the wraps earlier, but he'd left not long ago to check on another fighter.
The back of James's neck and shoulders felt uncomfortably warm beneath a layer of makeup he'd used to conceal the implant marks of the Kerenzikov.
He wasn't worried about the fight—his boxing skills were good, and he knew it. What unsettled him, however, was the growing involvement of the Irish.
He'd abandoned his old apartment completely, trading it for a cheaper one in the rougher part of Hell's Kitchen. The kind of place where people minded their own business—either out of habit or necessity.
Suddenly the crowd let out a roar, the sound even audible through the closed door. The crowd was small—less than 300 people—but damn, they knew how to make noise.
James snorted, pushing himself to his feet. He started bouncing on his toes, rolling his shoulders loose as he warmed up. His fight was coming up soon—one of the first of the night.
He was going to win. No doubt. No hesitation. He was the best boxer in this city. Hell, the best in the world.
Nobody could touch him. Nobody could stop him.
He'd prove it.
A knock at his door took him from his thoughts, pulling him from his flow. His head turned, before he could speak though the person at his door had already opened it.
A rough-looking man, his face covered in uneven stubble. His nose had been broken more times than he could count, crooked and battered, with a deep, ugly scar cutting across the bridge..
The roar of the crowd spilled into the room as the door swung open, sharp and sudden, before dulling again when it clicked shut.
James' eyes narrowed. "Wrong room, man." His voice was steady, easy—but he didn't stop bouncing on his toes. Suspicion burned in his gut, Vic's warning echoing in his head.
"No, no. I've got the right room." The man's voice was deep, scratchy. And to James' slight dread, there was no mistaking the Irish lilt beneath it.
"James Buckley?"
James clenched his jaw and gave a small nod, yanking at the laces of his right glove with his teeth. The man watched him closely, eyes cold and unreadable—shark-like.
"You don't look stupid, son," he said, settling onto the bench. "You know why I'm here?" He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest, casual but firm.
James tugged his right glove free, then started on the left, using his now-unbound hand.
"Yeah, I think so," he said evenly. "But go ahead—explain. Just in case I'm wrong."
Even as he spoke, he'd already pulled up his inventory with a mental prompt, his fingers twitching for the weight of his new Overture revolver. Just in case things went south.
The man nodded, unfazed, and pulled an envelope from his pocket. "We want you to throw the fight," he said smoothly, tossing the envelope toward James like he already knew the answer.
James didn't move to catch it. The envelope smacked against his chest, hit the floor, and burst open, spilling cash across the ground.
Silence.
The scarred man just sighed—he'd done this song and dance dozens of times.
"Don't be a fool." That was all he said as he slowly stood, his sharp eyes fixed on James. "You know who we are?"
James tilted his head slightly, barely sparing the envelope a glance. "Yeah."
The man nodded, his weariness obvious. He'd heard every answer in the book, and he knew what happened to those who gave the wrong one.
"Lad, d'you know what a bullet does to a kneecap?"
James's eyes narrowed, his hand still hovering near his inventory. He thought back to the men he'd killed, the way the bullets had torn through them. The way blood had sprayed, pooling across the floor, staining everything.
"I've got an idea"
The man hummed, a brief silence running between the pair.
"Just lose." the man eventually suggested as he turned to the door.
"You wanna make money, right?" James suddenly asked, his eyes locking onto the man's flat stare.
"Bet on me. First round knockout." James kicked the envelope back toward the older man, sending bills scattering across the floor.
The man chuckled, shaking his head as he left. "Fucking kids" he said underneath his breath as he shut the door behind him.
As the door slammed shut behind him, James turned back to the mirror, a sharp, focused look on his face. His hair hung messily over his brow, adding to the intensity in his gaze.
He felt strong.
—-
The crowd buzzed with restless energy, anticipation crackling in the air like static. Voices rose and fell, laughter and shouts blending into a chaotic hum as they waited for the next fight to begin. The scent of sweat, cheap beer, and something fried lingered in the packed venue, thick and familiar.
The first fighter emerged—a shorter, stocky teenager, his body inked with tattoos that crawled up his arms and across his chest. His short brown hair lay flat against his head, damp with sweat or product, it was hard to tell. The overhead lights caught the sheen of his skin as he strode toward the ring, his entrance song—a pounding instrumental—echoing through the building.
He wore bright green boxing shorts, shoes and gloves, the equipment shimmering under the lights, glittering patterns catching every flicker of movement as he climbed through the ropes.
"Coming in at 169 pounds! Standing at five-foot-eleven!" the commentator bellowed, his voice crackling through the cheap arena speakers.
The microphone buzzed with static, distorting his words, but the crowd didn't care—they raised their voices in response, the energy in the building swelling.
Then, through the speakers, the opening chords of a song kicked in—some in the crowd recognized it instantly. Franz Ferdinand – "This Fffire." A few cheers rang out, voices rising in excitement.
"Jaaamessss Buckley!"
The announcer dragged out his name, his voice echoing through the packed venue as the crowd's anticipation hit its peak.
James stayed light on his feet, bouncing on his toes, a bright grin tugging at his lips. He looked loose, confident—like he belonged here. Moving almost effortlessly, he weaved through the crowd, practically gliding toward the ring, the energy around him only fueling his momentum.
Victor followed behind, a spray bottle in hand, his sharp eyes locked on the ring. The older man looked used to this.
James however, couldn't get enough.
When they got to the ring, James quickly got into the centre, facing his opponent, the ref watching on cautiously as he held them apart.
The crowd's roar faded into a steady hum, muffled by James' own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He locked eyes with Fionn O'Connor, the young Irish fighter standing just a few feet away.
He was stocky, built like a bull, his knuckles wrapped tight beneath his green gloves. Tattoos crawled up his arms and to his chest that moved in slow, measured breaths.
Fionn wasn't scared. If anything, he looked hungry.
The referee stepped between them, raising both hands. "Alright, you know the rules. Clean fight. No cheap shots. Protect yourselves at all times." He shot them both a knowing look. "Understood?"
Fionn gave a short nod, his jaw tight.
James only grinned, his white gum shield visible.
"Touch gloves."
Fionn raised his fists. James met him halfway, their gloves colliding with a dull thud.
Then they stepped back, the ref glancing between them before throwing up his hand.
The bell rang.
James moved first, light on his feet, bouncing in and out of range. He kept his hands up, testing Fionn's reactions with a few flickering jabs—nothing serious, just enough to feel him out.
Fionn, to his credit, didn't flinch. He stood his ground, his body low, coiled tight like a spring waiting to snap.
A sudden strong right hand came sailing in. James dipped under it, stepping to the side before hammering a quick one-two into Fionn's ribs. The younger fighter grunted but pressed forward, crowding James, trying to smother him against the ropes.
But James was too good on his feet for that.
The young Irish fighter threw a heavy right hand, but James had already seen it coming from a mile away. His Kerenzikov activated with a barely audible whirr, time seemed to slow for James.
James had burst sidewards with unnatural speed, Fionn's punch swung through empty air, missing by miles.
The crowd seemed to still.
They should have bet on me.
James didn't waste time.
He planted his feet, twisted his hips, and launched a right hook straight through Fionn's jaw.
The crack of impact echoed through the arena.
Fionn's head snapped sideways, sweat flying from his brow as his knees buckled. He staggered—eyes wide, unfocused—before crashing to the canvas in a heap.
Silence
"OHHHHH!"
The crowd erupted.
James stayed on his toes, rolling his shoulders loose as the ref scrambled over, starting the count.
"One!…Two!…Three!"
Fionn twitched, his limbs sluggish, his body swaying as he tried to push himself up. His eyes were glazed, pupils unfocused.
"Four!…Five!…Six!"
The coaches in the boxer's corner were screaming at him now, urging him to get up, to move.
Fionn groaned, arms trembling.
"Seven!…Eight!…Nine!"
His body sagged.
"Ten! That's it!"
The ref waved it off.
"Knockout! Winner—James Buckley!"
The crowd erupted, but James wasn't looking at them. His gaze flicked to the ringside team, locking onto a familiar face—the scarred man who had told him to throw the fight.
He looked…resigned. No anger. No outburst. Just a slow, measured exhale, as if he'd expected this outcome all along.
James grinned, still riding the high of the win, gave the man a quick, deliberate wink.
Should have bet on me.
The scarred man didn't react at first. Then, almost imperceptibly, his jaw tensed. His fingers curled into a loose fist at his side.
And then he smiled.
Not friendly. Not amused. Just a small, knowing curve of the lips—like a man watching a fuse burn down to the dynamite.
—-
How we feeling about this chapter?