on the day of his first match, minho was terrified. this was the lair of scum, where those of the obscene assemble. but of course in time, he too has become much like these peculiar creatures; as everything that had once defined him vanished in time. not to say that he had admittedly become scum. when remnants of what once was crosses his mind, he doesn’t acknowledge the lingering sorrow but the hole in his shapeless heart that called to be occupied once again. it called for adrenaline. now when he enters the ring, he does so with open arms to a second home. and where fear laced his swings stood something greater. the next evolution of passion: fury.
the dark figure rises before the morning, renewing his bandages and tending to every scar on his limbs. oddly enough, he grew fond of these bruises, each wound nursed with the greatest of care. and to say he was a masochist? quite the under statement. this was no longer a chore, but a hobby. however, over the years of his absence, he never once stopped to understand: the ring had truly changed him. but who’s to say that this was a bad thing? what deems this development to be a burden? it was his means of comfort. proof that he was still valued, even if the circumstances were different. even if he were no longer needed.
and so here he was the next week, back for another round, another fix of that same adrenaline. it was a traditional caged fight between him and a menacing cloaked figure. initially, it wasn’t given a proper introduction, but this round was all the same to the looming man of shadow. fight to win.
“and in this corner, we have the amorphous shadow, the man of darkness! misterrrr hat trick!” as the audience erupts, the two figures meet at the mid point. although minho couldn’t quite decipher his opponent’s face, he extended his hand forward for the sake of ‘good sportsmanship’. ..he was dismissively ignored soon after. it was safe to say that no one knew what to make of this anonymous stranger. nonetheless, they got into their positions, waited for their signal and instantly shot forward.
“and it’s minho who goes for the offense, casting his shadows left and right! but it seems that our mysterious ghost is playing it safe on the defense, swiping the field with the ol’ bob and weave!.” despite his rough exterior, his moves remain precise and fluent. lunging his arms forward to weave the shadows, manipulating them at will. this swarm of dark ink sweeps the stage in the form of tendrils ready to pierce the figure through its cloak. but in a sudden turn of events, the cloaked opponent darts forward, evading every attack. fuming purely out of irritation, he reaches for the cloak without a moments notice, but to his surprise...
“well steal my paycheck and take my wife! it’s a shape shifter taken in the form of our very own choi minho! you’ve seen it here and now folks. the mysterious opponent is in fact a shape shifting, shadow dodging machine! but how will minho counter?” he doesn’t. he’s petrified. it was like staring into the eyes of a ghost. this fiend had assumed the form of his past and shoved it right back in his face. clean suit, prominent neck stitches, and a wicked grin that signified that this match was end game for minho.
he couldn’t stand a chance. given no time to recover, the shape shifter mirrors the shape of a blotched scythe through its arms, swinging forward, and wiping minho clean off the grounds. the match was over, and for the very first time in a long time, he lost.
by the time he gains consciousness, the lowly grunt gives an exceedingly irritated groan between gritted teeth, shoving his way out of the arena. he couldn’t believe this. he was thrown off and lost completely. and because of some lowly impersonator, he lost his value, is what he thinks. paying no regards to audience around him, he pushes past those who stood in his path but unwittingly shoves himself against an unsuspecting spectator.
and in a brief moment, their eyes lock, except that his own gaze had spawned from pure anger, something unrecognizable. through the perspective of another, how would they perceive an aggressive rat? he didn’t care. there were trash cans in the back alley that were just begging to be kicked, and there was no one in his way to stop him. he needed to get away from the arena, and whatever the hell that disgusting shape shifter did to remind him that he use to believe that he mattered.
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