The Fighter

Part One - The "Boss"

You were a reporter at the local paper, trying to make a name for yourself despite the fact that you were treated more like an intern than an actual writer. You'd been assigned to a story that nobody else would take, due to the failure of several of your colleagues beforehand to actually get anything on the guy it was about. Though, to be honest, you weren't sure that was even possible.

You groan loudly as you read over the minimal files you'd gotten from your superior; a ring fighter? This was definitely out of your scope of knowledge. Your long-time manticore friend at the next desk over, Grant, glances at you, brow raised. You shake your head and wave him over to read the file on your desk. After a moment, he groans as well.

"Seriously? They're sending you in to do this report with no prior knowledge of the sport?" his tail whips around angrily as he shoves his glasses back up his face. "You've got to be kidding me."

"No, not kidding," you mumble unhappily. "I mean, hooray for a story to get published with my name on it, but why did it have to be this?" You toss the folder on the desk with a sigh.

"How many have been sent before you?"

"Twelve."

"For fuck's sake- who the hell is this guy? Why do they want the interview so damn badly?"

You flip open the file and glance at the blurry, dark photograph. You couldn't really make out anything detail-wise other than the fact that the guy was humanoid-shaped.

"Apparently he's been a trainer for some of the biggest names to run through the rings in the last few decades. He's really super secretive about himself, and it was apparently only by chance his name was dropped and people got ahold of it." You shake your head. "Turns out it was just a moniker they call him. Nobody's been able to even get the chance to meet him face-to-face yet. Not even other papers."

A strained silence falls over your little corner of the office, and you feel a hopeless weight settle on your shoulders. There wasn't a chance in hell you were going to be able get close to this guy, much less actually talk to him. A heavy paw drops on your shoulder, and you look up to see Grant smiling at you.

"Hey, don't worry about it too much. I know that if anybody in this office can get a story out of anybody, it's you," he says, and you smile weakly. "Remember that time you did the report on the lunchroom staff in high school? You were the only one to find out that they actually made the pizza by hand!" He laughs, and you feel your mood lift a little. "I know you can do it."

"Thanks, Grant," you say, smiling for what felt like the first time since getting the assignment.

He nods and heads back to his desk, leaving you to stare at the terrible photograph once more. A thought passes through your mind, and you pick up the phone; it was just a hunch, but anything was better than nothing at this point.

After a few hours playing phone tag, you manage to discover that your mystery man was actually located just a few minutes away, in a gym on the edge of the city. From what you could tell, not even one of your predecessors had learned this, and you grin with newfound confidence. Maybe Grant was right after all.

—

About twelve hours later, you're no longer feeling as confident. You dust yourself off as you stand, having been forcefully pushed away from the door to the gym by a huge minotaur who had told you, in no uncertain terms, to go to hell.

"What the hell is it about this guy that people want to keep so secret?" You mutter as you fix your shirt.

You felt like you were trying to uncover a government secret or something. It was annoying to say the least to have so much resistance at every turn, but after that treatment, you felt a seed of spite take root.