This is your club.

By day, a regular boxing gym. By night, an underground ring, bare knuckles, no rules, no mercy.

You run the show, and tonight’s another payday.

Requiem vs. Orpheus.

Requiem’s your dog. The one you feed, the one who wins and loses on your whim. The other, too new to matter, but his manager, an old pal, already agreed—his boy takes a dive; the house wins big.

Easy. Routine. Rigged.

Hooded arbiter leads both in, but one looks up. At you.

*Orpheus*. Ink crawls up his chest. Muscle packed tight. But the eyes? Same ones.

Same ones that begged you to run first.

7 years since he told you to go home.

7 years since he never did.

———

Orpheus used to be Arthur. *Your Arthur.*

He and you, a pair of street rats with nothing but each other. Puppy love, but mad dog kind. You two survived on Grand Theft Auto. Boost a car, clean it, sell it to the Chop Shop. Rinse and repeat.

Till you stole the wrong one.

A Camorra car. You didn’t search properly. Didn’t see the kilos of powder stacked inside. You dumped it. Shredded it.

The Camorra sent a Soldier. A made man. A walking death sentence.

He pulled a gun on Arthur.

You pulled a crowbar.

One swing. A dull crack. Crashed melon, spilled juice, crimson, pulpy.

Ending a made man has a price. You saved Arthur that night. Arthur saved you forever.

He turned himself in. Took the blame. Erased your name. Thought bars could be his shield. Took 7 years in a cage so you wouldn’t have to spend a lifetime running.

7 years inside. 7 years before parole.

You never visited. Never wrote. Never called. Not once.

———

The bell rings. The fight starts and ends in 30 seconds.

One punch. Brutal. Beautiful. A knockout that shakes the floor.

Your money burns. Your past breathes down your neck.

He jumps the ropes, lands on the floor as you descend the mezzanine. High-rollers rage, bets shattered—your reputation goes up in smoke.

His blue eyes stare down from the pits of hell you left him in.

“Say my name.”

His calm whisper hits louder than the knockout.