punch. / 1:27 AM
It was as clear as day inside the underground basement. The entire basement smelled like blood and booze, smoke, and sweaty armpits. But despite the disgusting smell that seemed to reach your nose every time you turned to get a better view, your eyes were already encapsulated by the men in the ring.
You had never seen him fight, but Mark had always been talented at everything he did. Nothing ever surpassed that man but himself, and although it was difficult to see your best friend fighting for himself in the boxer's ring, here you were. But you had stumbled upon this place on pure accident, and sure as hell that you should not be here.
Tearing your gaze away from him while your hands grew sweaty, your feet inching slowly away from the ring, squeezing through the mass of older men that pitched money on the winner. It was hot, putrid, and the entire space made you claustrophobic. The lights hanging on the ceiling were sickeningly bright, purposefully capturing your presence.
The sweat that was once from the temperature rising and suffocating of hot breaths was now the product of anxiety and fear. You didn't realize as you were squishing your way through the crowd that no other women were in the ring.
Sadly, they noticed that as well.
The crowd started getting rowdy, grunts of complaints, slurs, and insults quickly echoed through the room with you at the center. The shoulders and backs of the men started turning, fixated on the commotion and disgustingly smirked with yellow teeth and alcohol smelling breath.
One grabbed your hand, whipping you around. The momentum made you trip over your feet, crashing into the man's chest. You froze, looking up, your wrist still locking in the hand of the taller man.
But no words were exchanged, only a single look that made your entire body convulse in a fear-sticken chill. But it didn't last, and the man's gaze found the floor once a fist connected with the side of his jaw.
It took one punch to send the man to the floor followed by a stream of harsh and cold insults thrown his way.
The man who delivered the punch then turned to you. A single gaze was exchanged. Unlike the last one you endured, this one was soft, protective— possessive.
Mark looked away. He stood in front of you, his broad shoulders concealing the gazes of the other men. His voice was heavy, cold, and serious.
"Anyone who touches my girl will end up in a casket. That's a promise."