Dorian Vance (2)

The crowd pressed closer to the cage as the announcer's voice echoed through the basement.

"Fifteen-year-old string bean Dorian returns once again! And tonight, he'll be fed to one of our favorites—let's hear it for The Vienna Vulture!"

A roar went up. Not for Dorian.

The other boy—barefoot and shirtless like Dorian—stepped into the center of the cage, arms thin but wiry, ribs poking through pale skin like a broken xylophone. He raised both fists and cackled at the crowd, his knuckles wrapped in stained tape.

He couldn't have been older than sixteen, but there was already a feral sharpness to him. His movements were twitchy, coiled. His face sunken and scarred. He bounced in place, shifting weight from one cracked foot to the other.

They were both malnourished. Both dirty. But the difference was clear: he wanted to be here.

Dorian stood across from him, shoulders hunched. His arms were longer. His frame thicker. But he looked out of place, like someone shoved into the wrong room.

The Vulture's record was at least seven wins in a dozen appearances. Dorian's was twelve straight losses—no wins, no rounds survived longer than three minutes.

The bell rang.

No more thinking.

The Vulture came flying out like he'd been shot from a cannon—low stance, fast steps, teeth bared. Dorian tried to raise his hands in time, but the first punch snuck through—a jab straight to the nose. Blood erupted on contact.

The crowd cheered. Gallo didn't flinch.

Dorian stumbled back. The Vulture closed in with a flurry of hooks to the ribs, each one landing with a sickening thunk. Dorian's knees bent. He dropped to one hand.

Already? the thought clawed at his mind. Already folding?

He tried to rise, but a sharp kick to the gut dropped him again.

The cage seemed to shrink. The roar of the crowd blurred into a single, buzzing note.

The Vulture circled him, flicking blood off his knuckles like it was paint.

"You're too slow, freak," he hissed, just loud enough for Dorian to hear. "You ain't a fighter. You're meat."

Dorian's fingers curled against the mat.

He was losing again.

Of course he was.

He always did.

Another punch landed. Then another.

Dorian's back hit the cage wall, rattling the chain-link behind him. His breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and his legs refused to work. The Vulture didn't let up—elbows now, slicing through air and bone, striking his cheek, his jaw, his collarbone.

Each blow sent a white-hot flash across Dorian's vision.

He couldn't even raise his arms anymore. His body was unresponsive—a marionette with its strings cut.

The crowd howled, baying for blood. Gallo's voice didn't rise. He didn't need to. His silence was louder than any insult now.

I'm going to die, Dorian thought.

The words came without drama, without panic. Just cold truth.

The Vulture grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him into a knee. Dorian's nose crunched. Blood poured like water.

He collapsed onto all fours, chest heaving. The mat smelled like rust and piss. He tasted iron. His vision swam.

I'm going to die here.

No one would miss him.

No one ever had.

For as long as he could remember, there had never been a home. No warm hand. No quiet voice. Just alleys. Freezing nights. Fistfights for bread. He was a ghost before Gallo ever bought him—just one more stray picked off the streets of Vienna.

But even back then—even half-starved, alone in the dark—he had never wanted to die.

He wanted to live.

He always had.

Not because life had shown him kindness. Not because anyone had given him a reason.

But because something deep inside him refused to give up. Something primal. Something animal. A voice that screamed even when he couldn't.

You do not stop.

You do not fold.

You are still alive.

The Vulture stalked closer again, grinning wide. He'd already turned his back once to taunt the crowd, raising both fists.

Dorian didn't even hear what the announcer was shouting now. His ears were ringing. The taste of blood was thick in his mouth. His left eye had sealed shut.

And still—

Still—

He pushed one hand forward.

Then the other.

His ribs screamed. His legs shook beneath him. The lights spun above like stars in a night sky he'd never owned.

But he stood.

For the first time in the fight, the crowd didn't cheer.

They watched.

Even Gallo, from across the cage, sat forward—just slightly.

Dorian didn't know how to win.

He barely knew how to fight.

But in this moment, standing on legs that shouldn't be standing, with pain wrapping every nerve in his body, he knew how to survive.

And that would have to be enough.

His legs shouldn't be holding.

His lungs were too battered to breathe right.

And yet—he was still standing.

Across from him, the Vulture scoffed. "Still up? Just makes it worse for you."

He rushed in again—confident, careless, fist cocked.

But something in Dorian had cracked.

Not broken.

Unleashed.

He didn't think. He didn't dodge cleanly. He moved forward—not away, but into the hit. The punch caught his jaw, but this time he didn't fall. He grunted, teeth rattling, and lunged.

He bit down on the Vulture's shoulder.

Hard.

The smaller boy shrieked, trying to yank away, but Dorian clung to him like a wild dog. Blood filled his mouth—hot and coppery—and he didn't care. He felt nails raking at his face, fists slamming into his ribs. But he didn't stop.

He finally let go and grabbed the Vulture's arm, twisting it violently. Too violently. Something popped. The Vulture screamed.

The crowd exploded—some laughing, others yelling, others frozen.

Dorian didn't hear them.

All he could hear was his own heartbeat—thudding like a war drum in his ears.

You will not die in here.

You will not lose again.

You are not prey anymore.

The Vulture stumbled back, clutching his arm. Dorian grabbed a handful of dirty mat—caked with dust, grit, dried blood—and threw it straight into the Vulture's eyes.

The other boy howled, blinded, and Dorian surged forward, driving his knee into his gut, then slamming him to the ground. He crawled on top of him, elbows flying.

One strike.

Another.

Another.

Another.

He didn't stop.

Even when the Vulture stopped struggling.

Even when his fists grew red and slick.

Even when the crowd stopped cheering and started murmuring.

Even when the announcer's voice faltered.

Dorian was trembling, snarling, teeth bared, breath ragged. He was crying, but not from pain. Not even from rage.

From release.

Because for the first time, he wasn't the one being beaten.

He wasn't the weak one.

He wasn't prey.

From the edge of the cage, Gallo stood wide-eyed, his cigarette slipping from his lips, forgotten.

He didn't say a word.

He just watched—stunned, as the boy he'd already buried in his mind refused to die.

He kept hitting him.

Even after the boy stopped breathing through his nose.

Even after his eyes rolled back.

Even after the Vulture's body sagged and stopped fighting.

Dorian kept swinging.

His fists were slick with blood, caked with teeth, broken skin, and pieces of bone. He didn't feel it. Didn't even notice the bones in his own hand cracking against the other boy's skull. He was snarling, grunting—screaming, like every second of pain he'd ever endured was being hurled back into the world through his fists.

The crowd was no longer cheering.

They were backing away from the cage, murmuring, shouting.

"He's gonna kill him—"

"Get someone in there!"

"He's not stopping!"

Two organizers rushed toward the cage door, fumbling with the latch.

Dorian didn't look.

He grabbed the boy's head and slammed it into the mat. Once. Twice. A third time.

Blood pooled.

The announcer's voice was gone. The speaker hissed.

Rudek screamed at the enforcers to pull him off. Two men pushed into the cage and grabbed Dorian by the shoulders.

He spun and struck one in the throat.

The man dropped instantly, clutching at his windpipe.

The other swung a baton, but Dorian ducked and tackled him into the fence with the force of a charging animal.

The cage shook. The man screamed. Dorian bit into his shoulder.

Then he turned on the rest.

Anyone who came close.

He didn't know who they were. He didn't care. One by one, they became enemies. Threats. Obstacles.

He clawed. Bit. Slammed. Kicked.

It took five seconds for the crowd to go from morbidly thrilled to terrified.

Rudek stumbled backward, yelling for the collar. "Activate the damn collar!"

"NOW!"

And then—

ZAP.

A sound like thunder cracking inside Dorian's skull.

The collar exploded with volts, sending white-hot lightning through his spine, neck, and limbs. His body seized mid-swing. He let out a half-growl, half-choke, and then dropped like a sack of meat.

He hit the ground with a hard, wet thud, blood still running from his knuckles.

Silence followed.

Even the drunkest of onlookers stood still.

No cheers.

Just breathing. Heavy. Uneasy.

In the far back corner of the basement, away from the lights, near the flickering fuse box, a single man remained seated.

He hadn't moved once during the fight.

A cigarette smoldered between his fingers, untouched.

He wore a plain jacket. A cap. His boots were clean. Not the kind of man you'd expect in a place like this.

His expression was unreadable. Calm. Still. Watching.

He looked at Dorian's unconscious body—then at the cage.

And then, finally, he stood.

Without a word, he turned and walked up the stairs, disappearing into the dark without looking back.