2. The Arena

Elena

Evenings were my favorite time. I would finish work or school and happily skip to the dark streets of Rome with one destination in mind.

Aside from the tourists, which offered much entertainment, it was a favorite place to be after a tedious day at work.

I cut through the crowded streets using alleys and backways, easily navigating the darkness as though I were familiar. And I was familiar with it.

I knew the path like the back of my hand and wasn't afraid to tread there even at night. My destination was the arena. The arena served as my escape from reality.

Sandwiched between school and work, I was constantly torn apart by responsibilities. Not forgetting Pablo's consistent calls, I was truly stumped and needed some respite.

The building was a warehouse. It wasn't dilapidated and old, but it was refurbished. I heard that some rich mafia man found it amusing to watch people fight without the strict rules of MMA.

The arena, however, was a cheap dump littered with adrenaline junkies like myself. I only needed a couple of coins to make my way inside, and sometimes I would get in for free.

Crowded nights like tonight were one of those nights. I smiled at the large doorman who served as both a bouncer and a collector. Fred wasn't Italian, but he had mostly acclimatized into society.

Fred nodded his head at me and returned my smile with a wink. He blocked the people who were crowded in front of him and made way just for me. With a giggle, I patted his hand and walked right in.

The warehouse could normally fit a thousand people standing side by side, including the circular ring. But that was only on slow nights. On nights such as this, at least 5,000 people were crammed in the small space making the atmosphere hot and humid.

Just above the ring was a hanging light that illuminated the caged ring below. There were no seats. People stood, and some brought tables so they could stand and watch the fight from a farther and higher distance.

The arena had high ceilings that accommodated a gallery on the second floor. More people stood there, but they were fewer. They were VIPs. The gallery housed different cubicles and chairs that served as perfect viewing spots for those who could afford it.

I never dreamed of staying there. I had a spot that I liked to stand surrounded by people I had come to know.

There was Paul, Edmond, and Julian. The three would always keep my spot for me. Paul waved me over as soon as he spotted me. With an enthusiastic wave in response, I elbowed my way through the sweaty crowd.

The fight hadn't even started, but the crowd was already hailing in anticipation of the fight.

Apparently, some new guy was coming in from outside to challenge one of the best fighters the arena had ever seen.

Paul grabbed my hand and pulled me up to the table they had secured. As I stood there, I felt the worries of the day melt away and dissolve into the rhythmic chant of the crowd for the one they called ‘the Iron Fist.’

The arena was not a pretty place. In fact, no ladies should be found in such an establishment.

The place smelled like urine, sweat, blood, and money. So in all ramifications, I shouldn't be found in such a place. But it was the only place I felt truly alive. It was the only place I felt I could be myself.

So the announcer entered the ring. "Ladies and gentlemen! Let's jump right into it. In the red corner, we have one of our best." The hall was silent as they waited for the introduction of the world-known Iron Fist.

"He's strong, he's fast, he is heavy with the fists, ladies and gentlemen, benefactors, and others, I present to you Iron Fist!" The crowd went wild with cheers and chants.

I smiled as I burned the memory and the sound into my mind. The hall fell silent again as soon as the announcer raised his left hand, signifying silence.

"On the blue side is a newcomer. A desperado if you must. He's confident that he can take on one of the best in the business." The statement warranted a few laughs from people in the gallery.

I looked up to find them smiling and snickering. Perhaps they knew it would be a beatdown, but I chose to keep my eyes open.

"Ladies and gentlemen, he is unknown, he has no name. So let us call him the Tattooed Maniac." This one got more laughs from people as the announcer smiled at his own hubris.

The arena fell silent. Just as the fighter came out, I couldn't help but widen my eyes. It's not like he was small. He was quite tall and with well-defined muscles, he looked formidable.

The name the announcer gave him made me think he was covered in tattoos from head to toe. But I was wrong. He had some, but not enough to cover his skin.

He looked familiar, and since I was quite close to the ring, I could see what made him so familiar – the necklace he wore.

Normally jewelry wasn't allowed in the ring, but whoever he was, they allowed it anyway. It was the man from the restaurant. Damon, I remembered, was his name.

I looked at him closely, my eyes scrutinizing every inch of his body. His thighs didn't look merely muscled, but they seemed to have power in them for a few explosive movements. His biceps strained as he lifted his fists in a ready stance.

His stance was strange. It wasn't the typical boxing stance; it reminded me of Thai boxing.

His hands were closer to his ears, and his head was ducted down in between his elbows, giving him a lesser field of vision. But it was a stance that I had seen in action all too well. I knew that Damon would win even before he landed the first punch.

I quickly raised my hands as the man yelling, "Place your bets," came around me. I dropped €20, my last cash, much to the protests of my friends.

"I bet on the Tattooed Maniac," I said, earning a startled look from the man himself. He shook his head and quickly wrote me a tally. I quickly moved my eyes back to the fight that hadn't even started.

As soon as the referee dropped his white handkerchief, the two men collided. It was quicker than I thought. But the Iron Fist swung with a wide punch that would have incapacitated his previous opponents. But I knew I placed my bet on the right fighter.

Damon instantly dodged and returned with an uppercut to the Iron Fist's chin. Dazed, the Iron Fist shook his head and tried to retaliate with another wide punch.

The swing was slow, and Damon saw it. He didn't duck, but took a step backward, allowing the Iron Fist to spin under the weight and power of his own fists.

As soon as the Iron Fist stopped spinning, Damon punched him again with an uppercut. This one knocked him out. The fight was over in less than a minute.

The crowd didn't cheer; they just stood silent. But I smiled and fist-bumped into the air, careful not to disturb the silence. I looked back at the ring to find Damon looking straight at me. He turned his head to one side and let out a little smile. He winked and then turned away.

Just what was that? I asked myself, feeling a rush of heat rise to my cheeks and another between my thighs.