Dorian Vance (1)

Vienna - 2020

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"Absolute filth."

The words dripped with venom as a large, pot-bellied man drove his boot straight into the boy's chest, slamming him hard into the corner of the dimly lit warehouse. The air rushed from the boy's lungs as he crumpled to the floor, coughing and clutching his ribs.

"You've cost me more than I paid for you. Useless. A waste of skin."

The man spat to the side and paced in front of him like a bull ready to charge again. The boy glared up at him, pain twisting across his features—but it was the hatred in his eyes that burned the most. He didn't flinch. He didn't beg. He just watched with a seething rage that promised retribution.

He wanted to kill him. Rip him apart. Tear at his throat with his bare hands.

But he couldn't.

The thick metal collar fastened around his neck buzzed faintly—its threat ever-present. A cruel device that sent electric shocks through his body every time he disobeyed a command or even dared to step out of line.

The man noticed the fire in his eyes and snarled, lip curling in disgust.

"Look at you… still defiant. You pathetic little beast."

He stomped forward, grabbing the boy by the collar and yanking him up until their faces were inches apart.

"Lower your gaze, boy!" he roared, flecks of spit striking the boy's cheek.

"I said lower it!"

The collar sparked once—just a flicker—and the boy's body tensed. But his eyes never wavered.

"PATHETIC CHILD!" he roared, grabbing the boy by the collar and dragging him upright. "LOWER YOUR GAZE, BOY!"

The moment the command was given, the metal collar around the boy's neck hissed—then discharged a sharp electrical jolt. His body spasmed, jerking violently in Gallo's grip before dropping to the floor once more, gasping.

Gallo sneered.

His name was Gallo Rautenberg—a pig of a man who trafficked in bodies and blood. For years, he'd run illegal fight pits beneath the warehouses of Vienna. Fighters didn't need to be skilled—only brutal. Only entertaining.

He had bought the boy six months ago from a slaver in the back alleys near Leopoldstadt. The boy was tall—unnaturally tall for fifteen—already six foot four, with broad shoulders and hands like shovels. Gallo thought he'd found the perfect investment.

But the boy had disappointed him. Again and again.

"All that height, and no spine to match it," Gallo muttered, walking in a slow circle around him. "You're soft. Weak. You flinch when you're hit. You drop your guard like a toddler. No instincts. No bite."

The boy didn't answer. His breath was ragged. One eye was swelling shut.

Gallo kicked him again—this time in the ribs.

"You've lost every fight I've thrown you in. I put you against a twelve-year-old last week, and you curled up like a dog. Useless!"

The boy groaned, but still didn't speak.

"You hear me, Dorian?" Gallo growled, spitting his name like a curse. "I should've left you in the street with the other rats."

The name landed like a stone.

Dorian. Fifteen years old. Born without a surname, raised without a home. He didn't know who his parents were—only that one day, they were there, and the next, they were gone. The slavers found him days later, living beneath a tarp near the Danube canal. He was tall even then. Too tall to hide.

Gallo had bought him cheap, thinking size alone made a fighter.

But Dorian hadn't been a fighter. Not yet.

He wasn't fast. He wasn't clever. His punches were slow, wide, and clumsy. Every time he stepped into the cage, he was battered, humiliated, broken.

And every time, Gallo beat him worse than the last.

But no matter how many times he was knocked down, something inside him refused to stay broken. Something deeper than rage. Deeper than pain. Something waiting.

Dormant.

Waiting for the day he would become strong enough to fight back.

During the time of the pandemic, underground fighting rings became a hotbed for infection. This meant that experienced aged fighters were less welcome to the idea of fighting. Instead, the underground fight clubs evolved, and instead introduced fight clubs with children. They could not refuse, and they had the strength and desperation and younger athletic ability that older fighters did not possess. 

Dorian was a boy that was abducted from the streets of Vienna when he was just 14. Gallo, the man that bought him, was a man that thought his luck had turned around. Unfortunately he was sorely mistaken. Dorian did not show any signs of skill or even decent motor skills.

Gallo tossed a rag at Dorian's body, blood dripping down his body, sores all over. He grimaced as he pulled himself up. 

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The air in the basement reeked of sweat, blood, and cheap liquor.

It wasn't a proper arena. It wasn't even a real room. Just a concrete pit beneath an old slaughterhouse, its rusted beams creaking under the weight of mold and history. Water dripped from overhead pipes like a ticking clock. The crowd, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder behind chain-link fencing, was already howling.

They weren't the kind of people who watched for sport.

They watched for pain.

Degenerates. Gamblers. Washed-up fighters with scars across their knuckles and sunken eyes. Men with broken noses and broken lives, clutching bottles and screaming for blood like it owed them rent. Women too—eyes empty, mascara bleeding, gripping cash-stuffed envelopes with trembling hands. Others lingered in the shadows—faces half-lit by flickering bulbs, hungry for violence and numb to anything else.

This was Vienna's underbelly.

And tonight, it stank of failure.

Dorian stood at the far end of the pit, shirtless, trembling. His collar itched at his neck, though it hadn't shocked him in days. He was tall for fifteen—towering over most men in the room—but the bruises across his chest and ribs made him look smaller. His fists were raw from last week's loss. Still swollen. Still healing.

"You listening to me, boy?"

Gallo's voice cut through the noise like a blunt blade. He leaned against the metal cage entrance, a cigarette dangling from his lip, eyes narrowed behind greasy glasses.

Dorian didn't answer. He didn't trust his voice not to crack.

Gallo grabbed him by the jaw and forced his eyes upward.

"You lose tonight, I swear to God I'm gutting you and selling your organs. You hear me?"

Dorian's pulse jumped. He tried to pull away, but Gallo held tight.

"You've lost me more money than you're worth in flesh. This is it, you little shit. One more loss, and you're done. I mean it."

He shoved Dorian back against the wall, spitting to the side before walking off without another word. No instruction. No warm-up. No prep. Just threats.

The announcer's voice buzzed over an old static-spewing speaker, his German slurred.

"Next up, we have the giant brat—DORIAN! Step in, you tall piece of shit!"

Laughter erupted from the crowd. Boos. Mocking applause.

Dorian's hands shook as he stepped toward the cage. His heart was hammering in his chest, sweat pouring down his back. The concrete beneath his feet felt colder than ever. The metal of the gate burned against his skin.

He wasn't afraid of the fight.

He was afraid of what came after.

If he lost again, it wouldn't just be pain. It would be the end.

He stared into the pit and felt the fear tightening around his lungs.

But underneath it, buried under weeks of bruises and the cruel crack of Gallo's boot, was something else.

Hate.

Not just for Gallo.

For the crowd. For the cage. For the collar.

For all of it.

And for the first time since he'd been dragged into this place, Dorian's fingers curled—not in fear, but in something closer to resolve.

He stepped through the gate.

Not because he believed he could win.

But because he refused to die here.

As Dorian stepped into the cage, the overhead bulbs buzzed and crackled above him like angry insects. The chain-link door slammed shut behind him, the clang echoing through the basement like a death knell.

He stood alone in his corner, eyes fixed on the mat. Hands clenched. Shoulders tight.

Just a few feet away—outside the fencing, in the makeshift betting booth—Gallo was busy sealing his final insult.

The event organizer, a rat-faced man named Rudek, leaned across a busted metal desk stacked with cash, ledgers, and old vodka bottles. His breath reeked of sour fruit and battery acid. He squinted at Gallo with growing suspicion.

"You want to bet?" Rudek asked, blinking twice. "On your own fighter to lose?"

Gallo puffed on his cigarette and shrugged.

"I want to put two hundred euros on the kid in red," he said, nodding toward Dorian's opponent—a stocky eighteen-year-old with cauliflower ears and a grin full of missing teeth. "Easy money."

Rudek's eyes darted back to the ring.

"You know I can't officially take that. It's rigging."

"It's not rigging if I'm betting against my own mistake," Gallo replied, voice casual. "It's realism. You seen that boy fight? He couldn't beat a training dummy."

Rudek hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. "Still illegal. Risky. You lose your license with the syndicate—"

"What license?" Gallo laughed, arms wide. "This whole building's held up by duct tape and blood. Don't talk to me about ethics, Rudek."

The organizer grumbled, then reluctantly slid the betting slip across the table and took Gallo's rolled-up bills.

**"Last time," Rudek muttered. "You do this again and I don't cover your ass when the dogs come sniffing."

"Don't worry," Gallo said with a grin. "This kid's not going to last a round."

He turned back toward the cage, hands in his pockets as he exhaled smoke and watched Dorian stretch, unaware.

Look at him, Gallo thought, eyes narrowed. Big dumb animal. All that height and nothing behind it. Like a factory that never had machines installed.

He remembered the day he bought Dorian. He was drunk—desperate. A slaver offered him a discount for "bulk without brains." At 6'4", Dorian had seemed like a deal.

But he'd been nothing but a drain since. Clumsy. Slow. No killer instinct. No aggression. No pride.

Every fight he folds like wet bread, Gallo thought. Every blow he takes like it's the first. Always bleeding. Always crying inside, even if he doesn't show it.

The crowd roared as Dorian's opponent stepped into the cage.

Gallo didn't cheer.

He just shook his head and took one last drag from his cigarette.

This is your funeral, boy, he thought. And I'm getting paid to attend it.