Born Wrong

07. a boy who cares

Bright Seo

Mission Gym is a boxing facility that sits on the edge of The Strip: where bars, nightclubs and casinos thrive after-hours. It almost seems out-of-place, not in the sense of the architecture—as they all carry the same archaic, rusted and run-down appearance—but more so in the sense of purpose.

The Strip is a place of illicit activities: underage drinking, heavy gambling, and a prostitution ring that sits around the corner. It isn't a tourist destination but rather a congregation of fucked-up people who wants to get wasted and forget about all their troubles and money in one night. Mission Gym, in comparison, presents itself as a reputable establishment for those who want to get into fitness and health—something more targeted towards micro-celebrities and internet stars in downtown Los Angeles.

But underneath the surface, it's known as one of the rising underground boxing rings of California—with tailored bets, aggressive fighters and drunk patrons. Aimed for people who want to not only witness people getting brutalized and pummeled to the brink of death—but for a small fee, you too can unleash all your anger onto an opponent with no legal repercussions.

It's primal.

Inhumane.

It fits right along the rest of The Strip.

I sit on one of the wooden benches as I study the boxers practicing in front of me. It wasn't nighttime, which means practice is merely technical and footwork, and the exchanges are padded with wrapping and headgears. It was easy, safe.

I hated it.

I feel the heat of a body slide into the space next to mine while I continue to watch. Despite the fighters being nothing more than mechanical, I always try to understand the people that come into the ring: how they move, how they swing, why they are here. It's a habit I formed once I got into boxing and a trick I use to win.

"Hwan." Rihaan greets solemnly, and it takes all my willpower not to turn and face him. It doesn't take a genius to know why he was here, but it did activate the little voice in the back of my head that represents all my insecurities.

He doesn't trust me.

"I'm not fighting." I say sharply, fidgeting with the hand wraps around my knuckles—wrapping and unwrapping them in one repetitive swift motion. "I'm just sitting here."

It's true. After my incident at school, I sprinted out of the parking lot and went on a drive. It was a feeble attempt at getting all of the adrenaline out of my system but the moment I found myself on the motorcycle, I was pushing the limits itself. I was speeding, recklessly, on the roads, on the freeways, and before I knew it, I ended up in Los Angeles in under an hour.

Los Angeles is a two-hour drive.

Once I returned back to town, I dropped my bike off at the house and took a walk. A long one. I didn't have any specific destination in mind, but as I trekked along the train tracks that split our city, I ended up at The Strip.

Now, I'm here.

"I know." Rihaan sighs, shifting his gaze away from my profile and onto the pair of fighters in front of us. The crowd is growing thicker, with drunken swears and cheers at the practicing duo. One of them threw an illegal swing—for the crowd, or for themselves—with elicits a puta madre from their opponent. "That's not why I'm here."

"If you don't trust me, just say it." I snap, turning to my best friend. I watch the way his expression sting from the accusation, and for a moment, I feel like an asshole. I don't do that. I don't do the whole moody and brooding act, especially to him. "Sorry, Ri."