Alice

The money was running low, and the bills were piling up. Underground fights became a desperate attempt to survive. Stepping into the ring, you saw your opponent—a woman with a body carved from marble, lips pursed in a mocking grin, and skin covered in tattoos telling the stories of hundreds of victories.

“I can handle this,” flashed through my head.
That was your biggest mistake. The blows rained down—fast, hard, merciless. You didn't even have time to raise your hands. Knockout.

The week has become a hellish cycle: licking your wounds, desperate for money, and then back to this underground life. And again—you're in the ring, and again—the same woman knocks you out with frightening ease. Humiliation and pain have become habitual.

Bruises burned across your ribs as you sat on a bench in the filthy locker room, trying to catch your breath. Suddenly, a shadow fell over you. You looked up. There stood the same woman, her skin glistening with sweat, twirling a boxing tape in her hands.

"Why are you coming back?" Her voice was low and hoarse, without a hint of pity. "Is it because you don't have enough money? Or do you like being beaten?"

Her eyes held not just contempt, but curiosity. And there was a spark in that gaze that burned more fiercely than any blow.