underground [au]

1.

Detroit, 1997

The garage was colder than outside.

Not just the air, the whole place had a dead chill to it. Like nothing warm ever happened here. Cement floor slick with oil and spit. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a few already half-dead. The stink of sweat, motor oil, and beer soaked the walls.

Marshall stood near the taped square on the floor; no ring, no ropes, just rules made of concrete and pain.

His hoodie was off. His chest bare and pale under the lights, marked with bruises that never fully healed. One rib still tender from last week. His knuckles were already red, even before the fight started. He didn't care.

The guy across from him- Tiko, was bigger. Thicker arms, meaner face. He bounced on his heels like this was a warm-up. Probably thought tonight was his redemption. He'd fought Marshall once before and hit the ground too fast. Tonight he wanted payback.

Reece, the sketchy guy who ran these fights out of the garage Marshall had stumbled into months ago looking for quick cash, stood off to the side, barely watching, and banged a rusted pipe against a paint can. That was the bell.

Tiko wasted no time and rushed in swinging.

First punch was wide — easy dodge. Marshall slipped it, felt the air shift over his jaw. Second punch was closer. A snap to the ribs. It grazed him, enough to sting.

Marshall's heart didn't race. It never did in here. If anything, he felt slower. Calmer. Everything narrowed — light, sound, thought. There was nothing except movement and heat and the way the blood in his body started to push harder with each breath.

Tiko went for a hook — big one.

Marshall didn't duck it.

It landed.

His jaw lit up like it caught fire. His head snapped to the side, and the garage tilted with it. His lip split open against his own teeth. Blood bloomed in his mouth fast, hot, familiar.

That's when it started.

The flicker behind his eyes.

Awareness.

A pulse shot through his ribs like someone knocking from the inside. Something waking up.

He straightened. Didn't wipe his mouth. Just moved in.

Left jab. Not hard, just a marker. Tiko flinched. Marshall spun off it and slammed his elbow into the guy's neck. Heard him choke, then back up.

The crowd got louder — not cheering, just shifting. Breathing heavy. Feeding off it.

Tiko charged. Shoulders forward, aiming to wrap him.

Marshall ducked, slammed his knee into Tiko's thigh — heard a grunt, maybe even a curse — then shoved him off and threw a shot straight into his gut.

But Tiko got one in too.

A right hook to the side of Marshall's face. Solid. His eye popped black for half a second. He stumbled, shoulder hitting the wall of bodies that made up the ring.

Someone pushed him back in. Always did.

His pulse kicked.

The pain in his face and ribs curled in on itself — not sharp anymore, just there, constant and steady like a heartbeat. Like a metronome.

Tiko swung again.

Marshall ducked — just in time — and slipped inside. He landed two quick shots to the jaw, then drove a hook into Tiko's ribs. The guy folded with a grunt, guard dropping.