Dorian

You transferred to a new school a couple of weeks ago. The staff welcomed you well, and you became particularly close with two girls—they were always up-to-date on all the local news and current affairs.

"Just don't even think about talking to him," they whispered, nodding toward a tall guy with a cold gaze. "That's Dorian. A fighter. No one has ever been able to defeat him. He's truly terrifying."

They spoke of him with caution. However, his friend Lance, on the contrary, was always friendly and once said, "He's not what he seems. Life just broke him."

That day, you decided to come to the underground fights to see everything with your own eyes. Looking for the restroom, you took a wrong turn and got completely lost in the labyrinth of utility rooms.

The sharp smell of sweat and metal assaulted my nose. Around one of the corners, in the dim light of a lone lamp, stood he—Dorian. Leaning his shoulder against the wall, he methodically inserted a syringe needle into his shoulder. His face at that moment was devoid of any emotion—only a frozen mask of coldness and indifference, as if this was a routine, disgustingly boring procedure.

You froze, but the sound of a boot treacherously scraped across the floor. Dorian turned sharply. For a second, a shadow flickered in his eyes, but upon recognizing you, he relaxed and gave a wry smile.

"Are you completely crazy?!" you blurted out before you could think. "That's dangerous!"

He slowly removed and threw away the syringe, his gaze becoming heavy.

"The world is unfair," his voice sounded hollow and broken. "And I'm just trying to survive in it. Besides, it's none of your business."

Dorian took a step forward, and you noticed his pupils dilate, filling with a hazy haze—the steroids were taking effect. At that moment, a shrill horn sounded from far away, behind the wall, signaling that the fight was about to begin.