Fighter || Jackson Wang [DISCONTINUED]

一 • one

You had barely made it over the metal rim of the sink before the thick, slightly warm liquid that had been trickling down your face finally dripped off your jaw. As soon as the single droplet of crimson splattered against the cool metal, you felt an odd sense of relief wash over your body, and you let out a breath you didn't know you had been holding. You took in a breath that smelled of sweat, cigarettes, and alcohol, feeling your heartbeat thump in sync with the bass of the music.

More droplets of blood fell into the rusty sink, mixing with beads of sweat and trailing over the curves and outlines of your cheekbones until they reached your jaw, some tracing your jawline until they reached your chin. You closed your eyes, letting the calm rush over you, knowing that it wasn't long before you had to return to the chaos that was outside of the door.

Just as the beat that was rumbling through the building shifted into a different one, a knock sounded at the door that separated you from the loud room. "Rae?" a light and honey-sweet voice called out, a voice that seemed to clash with the smells and sounds around you. You rolled up the sleeves of your cropped sweatshirt and pulled up your sweatpants. "Come in, C."

Looking at you then, someone would see pain: bruises painted across your bare stomach, arms, and face; cuts etched into your skin, with one stretching across your cheekbone and fading into a purple bruise. But listening to you, one would hear none of this, only a soft voice laced with exhaustion.

The door creaked open, revealing the face of a young woman, a bit older than you, with rounded features and a pale complexion. Her face was dusted with makeup, her electric blue eyes scanning over your figure with concern, her pink lips parting with a frown. She opened the door fully to step in, wrinkling her nose at the smell. Her straight hair draped her shoulders in midnight black, covering the thin straps of her cropped tank top that matched her hair color and the ripped ebony jeans she was wearing. "Your last match is in ten minutes." You nodded, acknowledging her.

She did not leave, however, her face still showing worry. "Are you okay? Does it hurt?" She handed you a cloth, which you gratefully accepted while you thought about her questions. Were you okay? It hurt, though it wasn't because of the cut or the purple and red hues that stained your skin. It hurt that this was the only option you had, an illegal, underground fight club. It hurt more than injuries ever could.

"I'm fine. It doesn't really hurt," you finally answered. She seemed relieved, taking back the cloth now stained with a deep red. She waited for you as you washed away the blood; the faucet squeaking and spluttering as you turned it on. After your cut was cleaned, you took a deep breath to calm your nerves.

"How much?" you asked, although you weren't sure the answer would calm the buzzing in your stomach. "250. It's the biggest one of the night." Nope, her response definitely didn't calm your nerves, but you knew from experience that as soon as you stepped out onto the arena, all the jitters you were feeling right now would fade away.

The door suddenly flew open, and a girl strutted into the bathroom, her stilettos clicking against the cracked tile. Her navy miniskirt and overly-exposing tank top were telltale signs of who she was: a waitress. "Lee Mirae, it's about to start," her overly sweet voice was like nails on a chalkboard, her face, coated in makeup, showing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She turned around, flipping her straightened platinum-blonde hair over her shoulder and shutting the door dramatically.

You took a deep breath turning to Carmen. "I'll meet you there?" She nodded. You were both going to the same place, but you knew that it was impossible to get through the club while staying together. You opened the door and melted into the hot, sweaty crowd that reeked of cheap alcohol.