On Friday it passed like an uncontrolled plane and the next night it fell with such abrupt heaviness that it seemed that even gravity had decided to push it. The time had come. My body knew it, although my mind insisted on denying it.
He was hitting the bag with a mechanical cadence, too precise for how nervous he was. The leather creaked with each impact, swaying back and forth as if it were also afraid.
"One..." "Direct blow.—Two..." —another impact.—Three! —hook to the side.
A quick, clean combination, the same one I practiced with the coach the night before. If he managed to concede it in the first seconds of the fight, he could take advantage. And the advantage was the only thing that separated a victory from another scar... or worse.
Fear was there, shrunken in my chest, but underneath it was something else: a small, stubborn, almost insolent spark. motivation. Each fight won brought me one step closer to freedom. Twelve fights ahead. Eleven if he survived this one.
A soft knock on the door brought me out of the trance.
"Come in, Mom," I said, stopping my breath and fists as if someone had pressed pause.
She poked her head through the door without crossing the frame. He was wearing his work jacket poorly buttoned, a sign that he was in a hurry.
"I'm going now," he said. What are you doing training so late? Didn't you have extra boxing lessons yesterday?
His tone was soft, but there was something behind it: doubt, concern... intuition.
"I told you it was to prepare for tournaments," I replied, taking off my gloves and throwing them on the floor as if I were tired, not scared.
"Tournaments?" Since when...? Bah, it doesn't matter. If I don't go out now, I'll be late. I love you, baby.
"Me too.
The door closed and the echo echoed a second longer than usual. Only then did I remember how dangerous it was to improvise lies. One more crack and everything would collapse.
I looked at the clock.
Twenty minutes.
I had to leave now.
I showered quickly, barely running the towel over my face and neck. I put on the old clothes, the ones I didn't mind losing, tearing or staining... although it was a lie. Everything ended up mattering when they beat it off.
I left the house and walked through the cold streets of the neighborhood, that area where the streetlights flicker as if they were tired of working. Each step brought me closer to the alley. To the obligation. To fear disguised as duty.
When I turned the corner, I saw him.
The place was not empty, but it was not full either. There were fewer people than usual, just a scattered group of faces feigning indifference. No one spoke loudly. There were no cars lining the entrance, no music, no screaming like the other times. Just murmurs, soft footsteps, and quick glances that died away when someone held them too much.
A low profile. Too low.
Everyone turned when I appeared. They didn't say my name. They did not applaud. They didn't encourage me.
They just looked at me. Almost as if they were verifying that I had come... or as if they feared that he would not.
I also noticed something new: it wasn't just the absence of noise, it was the feeling that everyone was trying not to attract attention. But from whom?
One of the organizers, a guy with a poorly concealed scar on his eyebrow, raised his hand.
"Leo." Your opponent is ready," he said in a voice too neutral to be him.
The fighter was leaning against the wall, spitting on the ground as if it might intimidate me. He was bigger than me, wider... plus everything. I didn't recognize him. Better that way.
"Name," I said, not out of politeness, but because I needed something that could strike with my mind.
"They call me 'Russian,'" he replied, with a slight, almost nonexistent accent. You don't need to remember the rest.
Perfect. I hated that kind of guy. Those who did not say their real name because they knew that they would not need it later.
I approached the circle where we always fought. But something caught my attention before.
On the roof of the building opposite, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed, he stood.
The "Big Boss".
There was no spotlight on him, no drama, no movie villain pose. Just a man in a suit, without moving, watching from up there with the same calmness with which someone watches time go by.
But his presence weighed. Fuck if it weighed.
I took a deep breath. The air smelled of rust, damp concrete, and fear of others.
The fight was about to begin.
The circle closed around us without the need for anyone to order it; It was only noticeable in the tense silence, in the way everyone took a couple of steps away so as not to receive a missed blow. The Russian advanced towards me as if I were a mass that had decided to move out of simple boredom. I raised my fists, though my stomach was throbbing so hard I doubted I could hold out for a minute. The organizer said something, an "whenever you want" that I barely heard before the first blow pierced my abdomen like a hot iron bar. All the air came out of my lungs and I completely bent over.
Another blow. This time to the cheekbone. Then another one, dry, to the ribs. I couldn't react, nor could I breathe. I just knew it hurt.
I don't know how I managed to stand up, maybe out of pride or fear, I wasn't sure. I forced myself to move forward, remembering the basic combination: direct, direct, hook. The first grazed his jaw; the second barely moved his chest. The hook... that one did go in. He took a step back, surprised, and for a moment I thought I could do something, which perhaps was not so impossible.
Then he smiled.
And the blow that came next tore the world from under my feet. A perfect, fast and brutal cross, hit me on the side of the head. The ground tilted. I lost my balance and fell to my knees, my mouth full of metal and my eyes spinning as if I had been thrown into a dark sea.
When I looked up, the alley was no longer there.
I saw the kitchen at home. And her. My mother, lying on the ground, motionless, her hand stretched out towards me as if she had tried to reach me in her last seconds. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't blink. The smell of cheap detergent, the unbearable silence, the way his hair covered part of his face... Everything was so real that it hurt me more than any blow.
"If you lose... the next one will be her," whispered a voice I didn't recognize, stuck in my head.
My hands trembled. I swallowed saliva, or blood, or fear, I don't know, and blinked so hard that my vision broke. The alley fit my view again like a poorly assembled puzzle. The Russian was coming towards me again, slowly this time, like someone who finishes off something that has already decided that he is dead.
I tried to get up. I failed. I tried again. And I don't know where the strength came from, but my legs responded.
He dodged my first attempt, or maybe it was me who reacted faster than I thought. His fist brushed past my ear. I took advantage of that moment: straight to the side, a low hook, a knee to the thigh that I hadn't even planned. He grunted, not in pain, but in annoyance, as if he was annoyed that he was still standing.
His next fist I blocked with my forearm and an electric pain went up to my shoulder, making me dizzy. My legs trembled. Every breath ached. But he couldn't fall. Not again. Not that way.
He raised his fist to finish me off and yelled at me to look at him. I did it. And it was then that everything was reduced to a single instant.
An upward hook. I don't know if I launched it by technique or by pure instinct. I just know that he connected.
It hit him at the base of the jaw and his head was thrown back with a snap that silenced even those around. He stood still for a second, as if his body hadn't understood the impact, and then fell backwards.
There was no screaming. There was no applause. Just a heavy, heavy, surprised silence.
My body gave way right after. My legs buckled and someone had to hold me from behind so that I wouldn't crash to the ground. My eyes flickered like a light bulb about to burn out. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt.
When he was about to close his eyes, the figure of the Big Boss began to be silhouetted between the dim lights of the alley, walking among the people with the same calmness that someone walking through a park would have. His smile... that macabre smile that I hadn't seen since the night he forced me to sign the contract... It widened as if it had been waiting for this moment for years.
He stopped right in the center of the makeshift ring. He looked at the ground, full of fresh blood that mixed with the dust of the alley. Too much blood for a bare-knuckle fight.
"Wow," he said, slowly turning around looking at us all, "but what a good show, don't you think?"
Absolute silence. No one dared to answer. And that was exactly what he wanted.
"Well..." his gaze fixed on me, like a shadow that knew too much, "congratulations on your victory, Leo.
He snapped his fingers.
Two men in suits—the same ones from high school, or perhaps others just as empty—appeared and lifted the Russian from the ground. They knelt him down. They slapped him until he opened his eyes, disoriented, swallowing saliva as if he were waking up in a place where he never wanted to be.
"W-what happened...?" Am I dead? He stammered, looking around like a run over animal.
The Big Boss didn't answer. He only adjusted the collar of his jacket and sighed like someone who is about to give a boring speech.
"You see," he began, walking between the two men in suits, "leave my fighters alive after losing..." it has begun to bring me problems. People think they can run away, hide, disappear..." He paused, looking at us one by one, "and that seems to me to be a huge lack of respect.
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
I felt an icy tug in my chest.
He pulled out a gun. A small black gun, glowing under the light.
He approached the Russian with slow, almost elegant steps, as if he enjoyed the tour. The kneeling man began to tremble, but said nothing. His breathing was the only audible sound in the entire alley.
"Asking for money," continued the Big Boss continuing to advance, "is not a game to be taken lightly. Some of you seem to forget it.
My stomach dropped to the floor. My vision began to beat. I understood everything at once. Too late.
The Russian sobbed. He tried to crawl back, but the suits instantly pinned him down.
The Big Boss stopped in front of him, cocking his head curiously. Then he looked at me.
"And you, Leo..." his eyes seemed to pierce me, "don't get confused. You are nothing but an asset. When you pay off your debt, I won't remember you. You're not special. You are no different. You are just another number.
My heart started to shoot. My breath was cut off. The fear grew so fast that it hurt physically.
"And when someone disrespects me..." he raised the gun and rested it against the Russian's forehead, "he pays dearly.
"E-wait," I whispered. No one listened to me.
"Sometimes," the Boss added softly, "people only learn when we set a clear example.
"WAIT!" I shouted, unable to contain myself.
The Boss did not turn.
"NO! DON'T DO IT! I tried to stand up, but my legs gave out. DON'T KILL HIM! DON'T FUCKING KILL HIM!
My voice broke. I scraped my throat. But he was still there, motionless, as if I were a mosquito.
The Russian cried without making a sound. He could barely move his jaw.
"Please," I said, almost breathlessly, "please..."
The Big Boss took a deep breath, as if enjoying every second of the silence he had created.
And he fired.
A dry burst. The Russian's body collapsed forward like a sack. The blood spread instantly, dark and hot on the cold ground.
No one shouted. No one cried. No one moved.
Just me.
The hands that held me suddenly released me and I fell to the ground like a sack of meat, unable to get up. People began to walk away in an eerie hurry, without looking back, as if staying a second longer was contagious. The Big Boss disappeared silently, without even leaving the echo of his footsteps, and the alley was empty in a matter of seconds, leaving me alone in front of a body that no longer harbored anything inside.
"What the fuck am I doing...?" I muttered, spitting blood on the floor as the metallic taste burned my tongue. not condemning the lives of others. Not me...
The words stuck in my throat, as if my own body prevented me from admitting it. I closed my eyes, not out of tiredness, but because I needed the world to disappear for a few seconds. I just wanted my legs to react, to be able to move, to leave. I didn't want to be there anymore, next to a corpse that, even if I hadn't killed with my own hands, was dead because of me.
And although I tried to deny it, that reality pierced me like a dagger.
The tears began to come out slowly, without noise, without strength, as if they had been wanting to escape for months. I didn't cry out loud, I didn't sob; I simply let them fall while the pain boiled in my chest and I repeated a single word, a prayer, a refuge that could no longer give me protection:
Mom.