Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.
Vince was new to the gym.
Not new to gyms, he clearly spent plenty of time in them. But this one? He was definitively the new guy and the lowest on the totem-pole. Despite this, and from the moment he walked in, everyone could see the difference from the average Joe or seasoned fighter. Sure, he came in looking good. He was lean muscled, sculpted like a statue, and had the kind of definition you only get from hours of treadmills, weights, and mirrors. But, in a way, that was the problem. Vince here looked great, but he didn’t look like a fighter. No, kid looked like a pretty pretty princess poster. Everything about him screamed show over substance. Likes and subscribing over form and trails. His warmups looked less like drills and more like a performance. Instagram staged, rehearsed, like he was filming content for followers instead of preparing for combat. He flexed between sets but only when someone was looking, adjusted the lighting when he thought it was even slightly off, and angled his phone just right to catch his best side. Where the other men ended their sessions plunging sore muscles into ice baths or wrapping joints that ached from decades of work, Vince disappeared into the locker room with a razor. Every trace of body hair had to go. His chest, his arms, even his stomach and legs, stripped smooth as glass. He spent longer shaving than most men did sparring. His body always had to look “on point”.
While all others who entered this gym bore sweat, scared, bruises and more like badges of honor they truly where... Vince checked mirrors between rounds. Bro just absolutely had to make super sure every strand of hair on his head stayed in place. Where men saw sweat and pain as weakness leaving the body, tot a drip of sweat on Vince was allowed to roll where a camera might catch it wrong. Only approved proper sweat was allowed. His guard, when he practiced or did drills, was neat, polished, practiced. But really, that's was all it was. A stance from a boxing video game copied for maximum effect. A pose from an old movie where the star was clearly paid to much. A grunt like he was a 80's action star. Kid moved like a live studio audience was watching, like the damn bell was just a cue for the next scene. It was obvious to everyone: Vince didn’t come here to fight. He came here to be seen. Which was a huge mistake in the long rung. You see, nothing pissed off the veterans, these men who bled and bruised for every inch of ring space, than watching a glossy show pony strut around their gym pretending to be one of them. It was, to keep it brief, bullshit.
Fitness boy belonged on a fitness magazine cover, not inside a ring.
As the days passed, nothing (like seriously nothing) about him improved. He played out each day like a scripted even in a video game caught on repeat. Every motion was performed for maximum camera coverage and likes. He held his guard high, chin tucked, body angled just so, like a model running through poses for a glossy spread but still enough of his shirtless body being seen to get more subscribes. His punches to the bag were sharp but without a soul. It was never with real intent. His gloves shined out like props, not hitting like weapons. There was no drive. There certainly was no sting. Just form and show for the sake of form and show. He wasn’t worried about landing. He was worried about being seen again and again. The worse during these days? The way he carried himself. Chin a little too high outside the ring? Smile a little too smug? It oozed an attitude of I’m better than you. Not earned by skill, not proven by sparring, but assumed. Worn like cologne. Like some cheap shit you could get from CVS that made middle class idiots feel like big spenders.
Annoying as hell...
Weeks passed, and something in Vince shifted. Was he not getting enough love and attention at home? Was he sick of the actual boxers not giving him respect? He certainly didn't earn it yet, so he couldn't complain there. But still, there was a change. At first, he had been just a nuisance really, posing, flexing, angling for attention. But soon he grew bolder, nastier. He started jawing at the older guys between sets. While they wrapped sore wrists or cooled down with shadowboxing, Vince would lean against the ropes, smirk on his face, tossing out jabs that weren’t with his fists.
“Getting slow there, old
man?”
“Careful, don’t pull something—you’re not twenty
anymore.”
“Hey, you sure you’re still fighting, or is this
just your midlife crisis workout?”
True the comments and jabs weren’t that clever, but it's not like he really cared. He wasn’t trying to be funny or cleaver. No, He was trying to be heard now, he wanted (for some stupid reason) to piss someone off. Some of the younger, less seasoned boxers grew annoyed, but learned to keep their cool. The show pony after all wasn't worth it. Most of the older boxers ignored him, well continued to ignore him. They been around long enough to know better than to get pulled into cheap mind games. After all they had purpose, reason, drive and zero time for bullshit. They were there to sweat, to spar, to push themselves. The ring was for work, not teenage drama. They rolled their eyes, shook their heads, muttered “kid’s an idiot,” and went back to training. But Vince, being Vince, wouldn’t let it go. Every shrug off only fueled him more. He followed them with that smirk, with the cocky shrug of a man who thought he won just by getting under their skin. He wanted one of them to bite. He wanted one of them to throw the first punch. It was reckless, dangerous, and really almost suicidal. Like he wanted to be taught a lesson, the harder the better. Days bled into weeks. Weeks stretched into months. The routine became predictable, Vince mocking, the veterans ignoring him, the tension hanging like smoke over the gym. Everyone knew it couldn’t last. And then one night, it didn’t. One night, one of the older men had finally had enough.
Enter, Michael.
A pro at the gym, he was a man in his late forties, beard streaked with gray, chest and arms thick with coarse body hair that did nothing to hide the muscle underneath. Generally speaking, he was cool, calm, collected, but not today! Vince’s mouth had been running hot all week, and when it spilled over again that evening, Michael snapped. When he did, he didn’t waste time on words. Michael just pulled a pair of gloves from his bag and tossed them hard into Vince’s chest.
“Ring. Now.”
The gym fell quiet.
Vince’s eyes lit up the instant Michael’s gloves smacked against his chest. This was it, the moment he had been chasing for months. His smile spread wide, too wide, curling smugly across his clean shaven face. He slid the gloves on slowly, deliberately, savoring every second like a star taking the stage. In his head, he had already won. At last, someone had taken the bait. All the smirks, the taunts, the posing? It had worked! Vince bounced on his toes, practically buzzing with excitement, grinning like a kid about to unwrap a present. He rolled his shoulders, twisted his neck side to side, flexing just enough to make sure everyone watching could see the way the lights caught his sculpted, hairless torso. He wasn’t nervous. He was thrilled. Michael, meanwhile, climbed through the ropes with none of Vince’s theatrics. Silent. Steady. A wall of a man, moving with the kind of patience that comes from decades of real fights. He didn’t pose. He didn’t smile. He just stood in his corner, gloves resting on the ropes, eyes never leaving Vince.
That contrast alone pulled attention.
One by one, the guys drifted away from the bags, leaving weights half racked, jump ropes coiled on the floor. They gathered around the ring, leaning on the ropes, curious to see what would unfold. Whispers ran through the crowd. Was Vince hiding something? Maybe the arrogance had a purpose. Maybe the weeks of posturing were camouflage, covering a fighter’s instinct that would finally come alive under the lights. He had the body. He had the confidence. Perhaps, just maybe, he had more than anyone had given him credit for. But the older fighters weren’t buying it. They crossed their arms, unimpressed, watching the clean-cut show pony bounce and grin. They had seen his form. They’d seen his fake rounds. Vince had already declared himself the star of the show, but in their eyes, the outcome was already written. Still, no one wanted to miss the moment. The gym hushed, the crowd circled in, and the ropes creaked under Michael’s weight as he finally squared himself to face Vince. For the first time, Vince had exactly what he thought he wanted. He just didn’t realize what that truly meant.
The bell clanged.
Michael moved first. He wasn’t wasting time. He came in heavy, throwing clean shots at Vince’s head. Not wild, not rushed, just steady with pressure and purpose. Vince’s guard came up quick, and for a moment he looked solid. He blocked the first hook, caught the jab, even rolled his shoulder to deflect a cross. The guys outside the ropes murmured. Maybe, just maybe, the kid had more in him than anyone thought? But Michael wasn’t fooled. He kept on him, relentless, testing angles, slipping in closer. Vince’s arms started to twitch under the weight of every impact. His smile flickered, lost behind the leather snapping against his guard. Then, one shot slipped through. Michael’s right hand cracked past Vince’s glove, snapping his head back. The sound popped in the gym. The crowd gave a sharp “ooh,” but Michael didn’t stop. He followed with a hook that crashed against Vince’s temple, then a jab straight through the middle. Vince’s guard broke apart like it was just for show. Because really, that's all it really was.
From there, it was a shit storm.
A hook slammed into the side of Vince’s gloves, smashing them into his cheek. It wasn’t clean, but the force of it rattled him. Vince tried to reset, but a quick jab split the middle and caught his nose. The sound cracked like a towel snap in the air, drawing a few chuckles from the crowd. Vince’s eyes watered, but he shook it off, blinking fast. He threw nothing back. Just stayed covered, waiting for the next hit. Michael gave it to him. He circled once, then came in with a one-two. The first jab slammed the guard aside, and the right cross buried itself into Vince’s temple. His head jerked sideways, mouthpiece flashing as spit sprayed. He stumbled, his back heel skidding against the canvas, but stayed upright. Another hook followed, heavier this time. Vince caught it late, glove half raised, and the punch crashed through to his jaw. His knees bent, legs jolting like they wanted to give, but pride forced him straight again. The guys around the ring hollered now, voices mixing with the smack of leather on bone. Michael kept dialing it up. A jab that was quick, flicking, just enough to sting. A looping hook that whipped Vince’s head around, snapping sweat into the air. An uppercut that lifted his chin, snapping it open like a hinge. Vince’s guard was falling apart, drooping lower each exchange, arms heavy and slow to rise again. His head rocked side to side, forward, back....like Michael was trying out every angle just to see what Vince could take. Maybe he was? Vince fancied himself a show pony, time to make him act like one.
Vince’s vision blurred. Lights smeared, the ropes tilted. Every punch rang in his skull, a dull bell tolling again and again. His mouth tasted copper, his jaw buzzed like it had electricity running through it. He couldn’t remember the last clean breath he took. Michael’s beard dripped sweat as he leaned in close, pounding another short hook into Vince’s face. The crowd hissed. Vince’s knees buckled, but somehow he didn’t fall. His pride, the same pride that made him run his mouth in the first place, kept him upright. Which worked well really, because Michael wasn’t stopping. He didn't want to stop. He wanted this to last! He sent a flurry of jabs up high, then a crushing overhand that collapsed Vince against the ropes. The leather cracked off his skull, bouncing his head back like a speed bag. Vince’s mouthpiece nearly slipped free, his chest heaving with ragged gasps.
Vince’s face was a mess. One eye swollen half-shut, lips split, cheeks blotched red and purple where Michael’s gloves had kissed him over and over. His legs quivered beneath him, each step shaky, as if the canvas itself was tilting underfoot. Still, somehow, he pulled his arms up again. His gloves hovered clumsy and crooked in front of his face, a broken wall trying to shield what was left. Pride alone moved them. Pride, and a refusal to drop in front of the older men circling the ring. The next jab, a nice additional gift from the older man, shot forward. Not high, but low, burying into Vince’s ribs. The younger boxer grunted, folding slightly. Another came from the other side, a hook deep into the opposite ribs, snapping his torso. Vince’s head stayed covered, but his body was wide open.
Michael poured in.
Left to the belly, right to the ribs, a short uppercut under the guard that slammed into soft muscle just above Vince’s waistband. Each punch thudded heavy, echoing in the gym with a deeper, meatier sound than the head shots. Vince gasped, sharp and ugly, air shooting out of him faster than he could drag it back in. The guys around the ring leaned closer. Vince’s gloves stayed glued to his face even as his stomach twisted under the assault. A hook slammed into his side and bent him sideways. Another dug into the pit of his gut, lifting his heels off the mat for a split second. His mouthpiece jutted as he choked on his breath, gagging against the pressure blooming in his abdomen. Michael kept him upright with punches alone. A right hand to the solar plexus jolted him forward, only to meet a left cross hammering the other side. A pair of body hooks caved him in, sweat spraying off his chest hairless and gleaming under the lights. The younger man wheezed now, every exhale a ragged groan, each inhale a desperate claw for air. Michael didn’t waste a word. He just kept working Vince’s midsection, shot after shot, until the kid’s whole frame sagged around the punishment. Finally, Vince staggered back into the ropes, arms still trembling up by his battered face. His stomach clenched hard, nausea rising in waves. The crowd could see it... kid was drowning. Fighting not just Michael’s fists, but his own body betraying him.
A hook smashed into his side, and the muscle there rippled, folding instead of resisting. Another right hand sank into his gut, and this time the gloves didn’t bounce. No, they sank deep, almost swallowed by the softness breaking through the surface. The men outside the ring winced in unison. They could see it, see the way Vince’s stomach was failing in real time. Each blow drove deeper, each response weaker, until Michael’s gloves weren’t meeting muscle anymore but something softer, unguarded. Vince groaned, loud now, every punch pulling sound out of him. He bent forward, arms still uselessly glued to his battered face. His body twitched with each impact, legs trembling, skin slick with sweat. His stomach fluttered, spasmed, then just gave out, sagging with every new strike.
Michael’s eyes stayed locked, cold and steady, as he hammered another right hand into the solar plexus. Vince wheezed, folding over the glove, nearly dropping to his knees. The nausea rose again, violent this time, and he gagged through his mouthpiece. The gym had gone quiet. Everyone could see it—the kid wasn’t just losing. He was breaking apart, right there in front of them, under the weight of Michael’s fists. Vince hung in the ropes, his face swollen, his gloves trembling in front of him. His body was already wrecked, but Michael wasn’t finished. He drove another hook into Vince’s gut. The sound was thick, ugly, and the younger man lurched forward, gagging hard. A follow-up right hand buried deep into his solar plexus, and Vince’s knees almost gave, his stomach folding around the punch like wet paper. The crowd flinched. They could see it plain—Vince’s abs had nothing left. Every strike collapsed them, no resistance left in the muscle at all. What had once been a proud, tight midsection was now a beaten target, Michael’s fists sinking in deep and unchallenged. Vince wheezed, gagging again, his body buckling more with every hit. But Michael didn’t let him fall. He crowded in, shoulders squared, gloves smothering Vince’s space. Instead of stepping back, instead of letting the kid collapse, he shifted focus. His fists rose again, angling back toward the head. A jab split the guard and smacked Vince’s swollen eye. A hook followed, crashing into his jaw and snapping his head sideways. His gloves drooped lower. Another jab, another hook—each one rocking him harder, forcing his chin up, making him stagger along the ropes.
And then Michael set his feet. Oh no....
He dipped, coiled, and launched a massive uppercut. It blasted through Vince’s loose guard and caught him square on the chin. The younger man’s head snapped back violently, sweat and spit flying in an arc under the lights. The gym gasped. Vince’s body jolted upright from the impact, legs stiffening like they’d forgotten how to bend. For a heartbeat, he stood frozen, eyes glassy, chest heaving. The room was silent except for his ragged breath, everyone waiting to see if he’d drop or if Michael had just decided to keep him standing a little longer. What followed was what the gym would call violent, even by boxing standards. The uppercut had left Vince frozen, his chin tilted high, eyes glassy, body stiff as if the blow had locked him upright. His knees wanted to buckle, but Michael didn’t give him the chance. He pressed forward, smothering the space, and drove another uppercut straight up through Vince’s guard. The glove crashed into his jaw with a wet crack. Vince’s head snapped back again, spit flying from his mouth. His arms twitched like he wanted to lower them, to cover, to quit... but they barely moved. Michael’s fists came again. Another uppercut, heavier, lifting Vince off his heels. His legs shuffled awkwardly to stay under him, but the motion was sloppy, uncoordinated. His jaw sagged, mouthpiece sliding halfway out, breath wheezing loud over the hush of the gym.
Then another.
This one tore his head back so hard the sweat sprayed in a wide halo, his body lurching upright before wobbling dangerously forward. The crowd winced as one, muttering low. Each punch was stronger, meaner, like Michael was testing just how much Vince’s skull could take before it cracked.
Vince’s face told the story. His cheeks puffed purple, lips split wider, one eye swelling shut completely. Every fresh uppercut twisted his features worse, jaw slack, his mouthpiece slipping further, blood stringing from the corner of his lips. His head lolled between blows, like it belonged to a ragdoll being jerked around. And still Michael didn’t stop. Another uppercut snapped Vince upright again, harder than before. His body jerked, stomach clenching, legs trembling so violently the ropes seemed to be the only thing keeping him up. He gagged once, almost retching, then groaned out loud as the next glove found his chin. The gym had gone silent, every man watching the younger boxer’s destruction in real time. The lesson was no longer just about shutting Vince’s mouth. It was about breaking him down completely, in front of everyone, until there was nothing left to hide behind. At last, when the barrage of uppercuts ended, Vince’s body finally gave way. His legs buckled, arms falling loose, and he pitched forward.But instead of dropping straight to the canvas, he collapsed into Michael. Into his his very hairy, and very sweaty chest.
The older man’s hairy, sweat soaked torso met him like a wall. For a strange, quiet moment, nothing happened. The crowd around the ring seemed to think it was over... Vince had taken enough, the fight was done. Some even relaxed, exhaling, ready to see him eased down. They started heading for the locker room, unwrapping tape from their hands, muttering about showers and dinner plans. The fun was finished, the day at the gym over and done with. Right?
Right....
In the ring, after everyone was gone, it was very different. Vince gagged loudly, wheezing for breath, his body convulsing against Michael’s chest. It almost looked like he drank in some of Michael’s sweat while gagging, taking in the older man’s odor as if he were enjoying it. The sight made Michael’s jaw tighten, his eyes harden. The hell? His disgust flashing into raw anger. He snapped out of it. Michael shoved his fists down and hammered Vince’s gut. Once. Twice. Three times. Each blow thudded deep, folding Vince over harder against him. His stomach, already ruined, had nothing left, and the gloves sank in without resistance. Vince gagged again, wheezing for air, his body shuddering under the punishment. Finally, his legs gave. He slipped down to his knees, head hanging low, gloves dangling, broken and beaten in front of everyone. What happened next, no one in the gym saw, or if they did, they never spoke of it.
Vince had fallen to his knees, his body wrecked, his face swollen and bloody. Yet there was something strange about him. Despite the destruction written across his features, he wore the faint smile of a man who looked… happy. Michael, on the other hand, didn’t look finished. His chest rose and fell, sweat dripping through the grey in his beard, eyes locked down on the younger man. He ripped his gloves off, tossing them aside, his voice booming through the mostly empty gym.
“Oh, you like man hair? I’ll give you man hair.”
He grabbed Vince by the shoulders and shoved him back against the ropes, pinning him in place. Then Michael leapt, his massive frame lifting off the canvas before crashing down. But it wasn’t an elbow drop. His arm hooked Vince’s neck, yanking his face tight into the thick pit of his arm. Michael’s hairy, sweat-soaked armpit slammed down across Vince’s face, crushing his nose and mouth. The younger man gagged, eyes bulging, as he was smothered in heat, salt, and the rank stench of a man who had fought hard. Again Michael rose, and again he came down—time after time, his pit burying Vince’s face deeper, grinding the sweat into him, choking him with both pressure and the sour stink of the fight. Vince’s muffled groans filled the ropes, his body jerking each time Michael landed. It was savage. Humiliating. More than just a beating now... it was punishment. And though no one outside the ring claimed to see it, the silence that hung in the gym after told its own story.
Michael’s fury only grew. Each time Vince’s muffled gasp rattled against his pit, it drove him harder. He kept forcing the younger man’s ruined face into the dark heat of his underarm, grinding down until Vince’s neck bent at an unnatural angle.
“Breathe it in!”
Michael roared, sweat dripping from his chest hair and running down onto Vince’s cheeks. Vince’s hands fluttered weakly against Michael’s sides, pawing, pushing, but there was no strength left in him. His lips disappeared under the press of damp hair and skin, every inhale clogged with the sour musk of the older fighter’s body. His whole body jerked with gagging coughs, but Michael only mashed him deeper, twisting his pit against Vince’s mouth, nose, and eyes until his face was coated. Over and over, Michael rose and came down, his pit smashing across Vince’s face like a hammer blow. The crowd might have left, but the sound still filled the gym...the wet slap of sweat, the choking noises from Vince, the guttural growls from Michael as he punished him. Vince’s features blurred, his swollen eyes barely visible, his mouth opening wide as if begging for air that would not come. Instead, he took in Michael’s scent, the rank stench of man and fight, drowning in it with every failing breath.
It wasn’t boxing anymore. It was domination, raw and merciless. Michael’s pit didn’t just choke Vince. It seriously broke him, smothering away the last of his pride, his fight, his very breath.
Whether it was the suffocating pit smother or the unending chain of punishment before it, Vince finally broke. His knees buckled, his battered frame crumpling to the canvas with a thud. He lay sprawled on his back, chest heaving in ragged spasms, his face swollen and glassy-eyed. His pupils were unfocused, his gaze staring past the ceiling lights. And yet—against all sense—there was a crooked, stupid smile pulling at his busted lips. The smile of a man who’d lost everything but found some twisted piece of comfort in the wreckage. Michael saw it and his fury flared white-hot. That smile wasn’t victory—it was mockery, insult. Rage carried him as he bent down, grabbing fistfuls of Vince’s sweat-soaked arms and dragging the limp body to the dead center of the ring. Vince’s head lolled side to side, his eyes open but vacant, his grin fixed like he wasn’t even in the same world anymore. Michael towered over him, chest heaving, muscles flexing, dripping sweat that rained down onto Vince’s ruined body. He stood for a moment, lining himself up, locking eyes with the barely-conscious fighter beneath him.
“Smile at this,” he growled.
Then, without hesitation, Michael leapt up and came crashing down butt-first onto Vince’s torso. The impact rattled the canvas, the ring posts shuddering as ropes quivered and snapped taut. A collective boom echoed through the empty gym, the sound of one man’s full weight slamming into another’s already broken body. Vince folded under the force, air exploding from his lungs in a strangled wheeze. His back arched, then flopped flat against the mat, his arms splaying out like a puppet with its strings cut. The smile stayed, it was vacant, eerie. It was stretched across his battered face even as his body twitched helplessly beneath Michael’s crushing weight. Michael didn’t stop with one. The thundering crash still echoed in his ears, but his fury wasn’t spent. He rose up from Vince’s limp body, breathing like a bull, sweat dripping off his beard. The sight of Vince’s dazed grin, still painted across that ruined face, made his blood boil. Michael stood, squared himself, and then dropped again. His full weight slammed down onto Vince’s torso with bone-rattling force. The canvas jumped, the ropes quivered, and Vince convulsed, spittle flying from his lips as another wheeze burst out of him. His arms jerked, then fell flat, twitching against the mat. Michael climbed up once more, pacing around Vince like a predator circling its prey.
“You wanted this,” he snarled, his voice gravel.
Then he leapt, crashing down with even more force. The gym floor itself seemed to quake with the impact. Vince’s body folded, then spread flat, his head rocking back with a dull smack against the mat. His glassy eyes fluttered, half-lidded, but that same crooked smile clung to him like it was carved there.
Again Michael rose. Again he came down, the ring booming with each slam. Each time, he threw more of himself into it. He had hips rolling, core tightening, dropping with cruel precision. By the fourth, Vince’s chest no longer even rose to meet the hit; it just collapsed under the weight like a mattress being pressed flat. By the fifth, his legs gave a feeble spasm, then went still. Still Michael wasn’t finished. He stood above Vince’s broken form, looming, dripping sweat down onto his opponent’s glazed-over face. His eyes were wild, beard matted, chest heaving. He jumped one last time, putting every ounce of his body behind the drop. The ring thundered, ropes rattled, and Vince let out a strangled grunt before falling completely limp. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by Michael’s own labored breathing and the faint hum of the gym’s lights. Vince lay motionless beneath him, arms spread wide, that stupid beaten grin frozen on his battered, swollen face.
Michael stood over Vince, drenched in sweat, chest heaving like a bellows. His eyes burned down at the broken body spread beneath him, limp and twitching, that maddening grin still etched across his swollen face. With a guttural snarl, Michael rose up one more time. His legs coiled, his body arched, and then he dropped, every ounce of weight and rage coming down in a single crushing blow. The ring exploded with sound, the canvas jolting under the impact. Vince’s body folded violently, a muffled grunt breaking from his throat before his head snapped back. His eyes rolled, the grin vanished, and then—nothing. He lay still, unconscious, every muscle slack, every breath shallow and rattling. The fight, the mockery, even the twisted smile… all gone. Michael sat there for a moment, chest rising and falling, his thick beard dripping sweat onto the motionless fighter. He looked down at what he had done, at the young man who had mouthed off, strutted, begged for this kind of punishment—and now was nothing more than a wreck sprawled on the mat. With a final exhale, Michael pushed himself to his feet. He didn’t check for the others, there were no witnesses left, no one to cheer or to judge. He didn’t bother with words. He just climbed out of the ring, his heavy footsteps echoing across the empty gym floor.
Vince remained where he fell, flat on his back under the lights, marked, broken, and silent. No grin. No movement. Just a beaten fighter left behind in the middle of the ring.
Days later:
Vince sat on the edge of his bed, the bruises and swelling from the ring still raw under his skin. His hands trailed slowly over his broken abs, fingers tracing the flattened ridges and tender spots that had once flexed with pride. Each press, each gentle squeeze reminded him of every strike, every slam, every humiliation he had endured... and somehow, he smiled. The memory of Michael’s fury, the weight, the crushing dominance, the relentless pounding… it filled him with a strange warmth, a thrill that twisted in his chest and made him shiver. He thought of the older man’s voice, his rage, the sweat and hair and raw power pressed against him in the showers. Vince chuckled softly, a dark, private sound, and let his hands linger a little longer over the scars and bruises, over the ruined strength of his midsection.
“Yeah,” he whispered to himself, eyes closing, grin still crooked and faint. “You gave me everything, Michael. And I loved it.”
He leaned back against the pillows, letting the ache, the memories, and the brokenness wash over him. Alone in his apartment, Vince finally allowed himself to savor it. All of it, the fight, the pain, the surrender, and the twisted satisfaction of having survived exactly the way he wanted.
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