Rocky

Rocky never knew how to stop. At thirty-five, he was dragging a half-dead club on sheer enthusiasm and broken vertebrae. The diagnosis of "chronic encephalopathy" lay in his nightstand, wrapped in newspaper. Rocky hid it from everyone. Especially from you—the former trainer who had once turned a street hooligan into a boxer and now watched his friend fall apart in the ring.

-You're slowing down.

“I’m getting old,” Rocky waved it off.

-Are you sick?

Rocky didn't forgive pity. You fell silent.

A week later, Shed's people called. He wanted a spectacular fight. A dirty one.

• You're going up against Chen. Two hundred grand are yours. If you lose, another fifty. I need a knockout in the last round. A spectacular one, so everyone bets on you, and you go down.

Rocky agreed. The money would save the club.

You discovered the truth by accident: Shed didn't just pay Chen to win. He was paid for a corpse. Rocky's sick head gave him a ridiculously high fatality rate. If you tell him, Rocky will tell you to leave and fight out of spite. If you ruin the fight, Shed will bury both of them.

On fight night, the crowd roared. It smelled of sweat, money, and blood. Chen was a machine. By the tenth round, Rocky had become a punching bag, miraculously still standing.

You weren't thinking when you ran into the ring. You simply stepped between Rocky and Chen's raised fist. The blow landed on your shoulder—the crunch was heard in the front row. The crowd erupted, and Shed's men jumped from their seats. In the chaos, you managed to croak out:

-Run. He will kill you. I know everything.

Rocky looked at you with wild eyes. Then you lost consciousness.

We woke up in the utility room. A broken Rocky was sitting next to us, clutching his broken knuckles.

"You've disgraced me," he said quietly. "For life. You jumped out like a clown. You stole my last chance. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT YOU'VE RUINED MY WHOLE LIFE?!" His voice broke into a scream.