Of Vice and Virtue

Chapter One: First Round

Chapter One: First Round, Or,
The One Where Some Dude's Jaw Is Broken

A satisfying thwack as a fist made contact with a face, adrenaline coursing through him when his opponent stumbled.

The cheers of the crowd, vicious and brutal and crowing for blood, sang in his veins like wildfire spreading through a forest.

A wolfish smile crept across his face, all teeth when his opponent came back for more and he snapped out a punch, square in their gut before he grabbed their arm, slung them over his shoulder and slammed them into the hard surface of the ring.

Electrifying silence for a moment, hairs on the back of his neck prickling as the referee checked the other fighter over - out cold.
The crowd erupted into thunderous screams again, announcer barely audible even with their microphone. "Our winner yet again for this year's free-for-all - give it up for Raphael, everybody!"

Rafael Morita stood proudly in the centre of the ring, one fist raised in victory as he continued to grin and bask in the cheers of the crowd.

Here was where he could forget about it all, just for a moment.
Here was all he had known.
Here was where he felt alive.

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"Your winnings, Morita."

Barely restraining the urge to slap the other man as annoyance flashed through him - god, how he hated his last name - the fighter snatched up the envelope, leafing through the notes and glaring indignantly. "Hey! That's two hundred short!"

With a barely there smile that somehow still managed to be smug, the man gave the tiniest, most lackadaisical shrug known to humanity. Rafael swore he had never felt anything so strongly as the need to punch that smile off of his face. "Turns out you broke that other guy's jaw. His benefactor wasn't very impressed. Count yourself lucky that the boss wrangled the rest of it for you."

Shooting a glare at the other man as he walked away, stuffing the envelope right at the bottom of his bag, Rafael left the bar and slammed the door behind him.

The balmy Australian heat was almost suffocating compared to the coldness of the bar, chirping crickets and the far-off siren of an ambulance the only sounds in the night. Odours of alcohol and rubbish mingling together in the dimly lit back alley, it was with a long sigh that he began the walk back home, boots rhythmically thudding against the pavement in a one-two, one-two stride. This part of the city was quiet tonight and Rafael found himself thankful for that; there was no doubt he could go another round or two, but after the slugfest that the free-for-all had been he really preferred to not. Bag strap gripped tightly in one hand, other hand clenched in a fist, he was given a wide berth by the few who had decided to come out - though he was slim, it was all lean muscle and he radiated a dangerous aura of don't touch me , his glare keeping away any would-be attackers. At that thought, he snorted in laughter. Let 'em try. Left-right, goodnight as they say.

Just as quickly, another thought hit him, and he stopped for a moment,  immediately sobered. Unless one of them has a gun. Damnit, I really hope no-one here has a gun.

His apartment complex arrived upon him sooner than expected, keys jangling noisily as he let himself in and legs screaming out in protest as he hauled himself up four flights of stairs. A small smile broke over his face when he saw the soft blue glow underneath the door of the apartment opposite his, and he knocked on the door.

There was the faint creaking of a peephole being opened, then the clattering of a deadbolt being unlocked before the door swung open to reveal an elderly lady with curlers in her hair and cosy slippers. "Oh, Raphie, I wondered who it was at this time of night!"

"Just me. Midsummer Murders?"

A fond chuckle, the older woman patting his shoulder. "You know me too well."

He shrugged, then rummaged around in the bottom of his bag for the envelope with the money in it, taking out several hundred dollar notes. "Here. Thanks again."

Though he attempted to give them to her, she merely clucked disapprovingly and pushed them back into his hands. "You need those far more than I do, child."

With a frown, he tried to give them back to her and she whacked him lightly on the arm. "I mean it. Keep the money or I'll never let you borrow my sugar again."

A snort of laughter escaped him then, at the normalcy of her statement. "Alright. Thanks, Ms. Willow."

Satisfied smile on her face, she shuffled back into her apartment, leaving Rafael alone in the hallway. There he remained for a few moments, silently thanking whatever deity had decided that such a saint was his to be his neighbour. Hollowness began to creep in and with a sigh, he at last unlocked the door to his apartment, stepping inside.

It was almost Spartan in decoration, a lamp in the corner and a table with a few chairs the only furniture he had. It was on the table he dumped his bag and took out the money envelope, stashing it away in a cupboard.
Sighing as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, the man trudged his way to the small bedroom and plonked himself face-down on the mattress on the floor. The silence in his apartment was deafening; cold and unforgiving.

And trying to ignore that gnawing feeling of emptiness, that feeling of never going to amount to anything, Rafael drifted off to sleep.