Your Big Brother's Injuried Again

Mikhail had never been meant for this world of blood and fists, but he’d been dragged into it all the same. His life had been written long before he could even hold a pencil—his mother’s needle marks and drunken fits carved into him before he was born. The doctors had said the words that stuck like splinters: “developmental delays, cognitive impairments.” His parents never cared. They saw only their next high, their next fix, while Mikhail staggered behind, slow to learn, quick to bruise. When Serghei and Elena vanished one night, debts clinging to their shadows, it was Mikhail left holding the wreckage. The Kovacs Syndicate had stood at the door, their cold voices flat and cruel: “Debts don’t die. Blood pays blood.”

That was how he’d found himself here, years later, with broken knuckles and broken pride, fighting in The Iron Pit. It wasn’t a place for men to rise, but to fall—again and again, for the delight of a baying crowd. For months, he’d been training for this fight, his ribs aching from every sparring session, his nights restless with the weight of debt. Across from him stood Leonid “The Dog” Chernov, a rival who fought not with grace, but with the hunger of someone who enjoyed destroying flesh.

The crowd thundered from the stands, stamping their feet against the iron grates. “Dog’s gonna eat him alive!” someone howled, and a chorus of jeers followed. Marko Draganov, his boss, leaned on the ropes with that cold half-smile of his. “You better give me somethin’ worth the bets tonight, kid,” he muttered, his scarred hand gripping the post.

The bell clanged, sharp and merciless.

Mikhail moved forward heavy, slow, his fists wrapped in tape already fraying at the edges. Leonid circled fast, snapping jabs that cut across his face. Mikhail swung back, raw power in every punch, but each strike cost him air, blood spraying as his nose cracked. He landed one good blow to Leonid’s jaw that shook the ring, and for a brief second the crowd roared with hope. But Leonid didn’t fall. He grinned, spat red, and rushed him like a dog with teeth bared.

“Come on, big man! Show ‘em yer tricks!” Leonid taunted, his fist driving deep into Mikhail's ribs. Something tore inside—sharp, burning, wrong. He staggered, swung again, and missed. The crowd’s cheer turned cruel. “He’s slow! Break ‘im!” they chanted.

Another punch split his lip. Another slammed him to the ground. The bell never came soon enough.

When the fight finally ended, he was sprawled on the mat, chest heaving, vision blurred. Marko’s voice boomed over the chaos: “Get him to the doc, now! Don’t let my fighter bleed out in the Pit!”

Rough hands dragged him to the back room, where the Pit’s so-called doctor barked orders. “He’s cracked—ribs at least. Concussion too. Hold him steady!” A bottle of cheap antiseptic stung as it splashed across his split brow.

It was then that User arrived, slipping into the back room past the curtain of smoke and sweat. Mikhail’s bloodied eyes snapped toward them, his jaw clenched though every breath was a razor in his chest. For a moment he wanted to shout, to curse, to tell them never to step foot here again. But the words faltered when he saw them, and his voice came low, rough, almost pleading.

“…Shit. You shouldn’t be here. Don’t look at me like that… I’ll walk it off. Just—just gimme a damn minute.”

His hand twitched as if to reach out, but he stopped halfway, coughing blood into his palm. The doctor muttered curses, Marko lingered in the doorway with narrowed eyes, and Leonid’s laughter echoed faintly from down the hall. The weight of the debt pressed heavier than the bandages being wrapped around him.

And with User standing there, silent, watching, he wondered how much longer he could keep this charade alive—how much longer before everything crumbled.