Page 3 of Ghost’s Awakening

The ring sat at the center of it. A raised plywood platform, maybe twenty feet square, ringed with thick hemp rope strung between steel posts. No padding. No turnbuckles. That rope left welts that wept for a week. I'd found that out during my fifteenth fight, when I was shoved back into it hard enough to burn a stripe across my shoulder blade. I'd had to sleep on my stomach to keep the pain away.

The sodium lamps hanging off the rafters on industrial clamps went on, throwing the whole place a hard yellow-white. The crowd turned into a field of lit faces and black gaps, features blown out one second and gone the next as heads twisted away from the sudden light. The crowd knew what the lights meant. Their roar came up to meet the lights and rattled through my skull.

Money moved rapidly through the front rows. Bills folding into palms, bets settled on a nod and a look.

Harlan shouldered a path through the crowd and I followed in, bodies closing at my back, the heat of other men's breath on my neck.

"Hey—Monk! Monk!" A hand snagged my arm. A drunk in the second row, glassy-eyed and grinning, breath sour enough to sting from a foot away. "Put the Jackal on his ass, yeah? Got three hundred on you, man."

Harlan's arm swept back and knocked the hand loose without turning his head.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer buzzed through blown speakers, splitting on every hard consonant. "Your next bout! Standing six foot five, two hundred and five pounds, with a record of eleven wins and six losses, the Jackal!"

The crowd erupted, their roars sharp and hungry. I went up the three plywood steps. The mat was damp under my bare feet, sweat from the last fight or water from a lazy mop, and I could see a dark stain near the center, a spot the bleach hadn't reached.

The Jackal was already up there. Taller than me by a couple inches, wiry, all reach and long lean muscle, buzz cut catching the light, ink running up both arms and climbing his neck into the hollows behind his ears. He bounced on the balls of his feet, drinking the noise, grinning out at the seats like he'd thrown the party himself. His eyes found me and the grin spread.

"This the one they call Monk?" He pitched it to the crowd. "Sunday school's in session, boys! You gonna pray for me, sweetheart? Get down on your knees and⁠—"

"Undefeated! Sixteen wins and zero losses! Six foot three, one hundred and ninety-five pounds, Monk!"

It landed quieter. Nobody knew what to do with a fighter who kept his mouth shut and just ended things. No chant for me. No show to chant along with. I went to my corner and set my feet.

The ref rattled off the rules. No eyes, no biting, nothing below the belt, flat, the way you'd read a menu for the hundredth time that month.

The Jackal bounced opposite me. Guard high, weight riding heavy on his right side, which told me the power lived in his right hand and left his left side open.

I stood still. Hands loose. Eyes on the center of his chest, where movement starts a beat before the arms catch up.

"Fight!"

The room detonated. Two hundred voices slammed into the steel walls and came back doubled.

The Jackal danced. Side to side, bouncing. "Come on, Monk." A jab that died six inches short of my face, a check meant to make me flinch. The pushed air brushed my cheek. "Give me something, man. You're making me look bad up here."

I didn't move. Let the seconds stretch. Let his need to perform press against the quiet until it cracked him.

The Jackal's grin faded to nothing. "Fuck it."

His right cross came hard, hip turning over to double the weight behind it.

I dropped, knees folding, and his fist scraped the top of my skull. I caught myself on my left hand and threw a roundhouse with my right leg. My right shin drove up into his open left side, right on the ribs.

Clean shot. He folded around the shin, the air kicked out of him, guard faltering, head dropping to waist height. It all happened in a split second.

I switched hands, dropped my right palm to the mat, and spun left. My left heel came around in a spinning hook kick and met his lowered head.

The hit connected hard with his jaw and his head whipped sideways. Blood spat across the mat. He staggered into the ropes and hung there on his chest, arms folded over the hemp rope.

Two hundred people went feral. The screaming swallowed the scattered boos from the pockets who'd bet the other way. They had no love for the quiet monk, but they came alive when I beat a man bloody in front of them. Animals, all of them.

I straightened and waited.

The Jackal came back slow. Swimming eyes finding their focus, weight settling, guard tucking in tighter and closer. Blood dripped down from his lip. The left side of his jaw was already darkening. There was no more bounce in him, just a shuffle. My kicks had taken the show out of him and left him with survival.

The Jackal broke his stance and charged. Head down, arms wide. A tackle. He couldn't beat me standing and he knew it, so he was putting everything on getting me to the floor.

I stepped backward. One step, timed to his rush, letting the movement eat some of the force before his shoulder slammed into my gut. The impact folded me and my back hit the mat, his weight driving down on top of me.