RAZE (Fighter's Den, #0.5)

Chapter One

"Your turn, son."

I don't bother offering any sort of acknowledgment, too focused on the ring in front of me. Too focused on my opponent and what I know is about to happen. Part of me feels sick but part of me knows this is the way it has to be. It's all about survival so I cannot afford petty emotions of any kind. It is time to shut down and do what I need to fucking do.

Boisterous cheers and deep calls of encouragement meet my eardrums as soon as I step into the ring. I know a lot of them are only because I am the son of Abram and they fear me. Only a small portion cheer because they know how far my skills and talents go. Son of Abram or not, I am a protégé of destruction. That's how I earned the name that's bouncing off the four walls of this dark warehouse.

"Raze! Raze! Raze!"

Raze. To destroy. To completely eliminate.

I was conditioned to annihilate. My opponent does not know that or he wouldn't be stepping into the ring with me, especially not with that smug fucking smirk. If he knew what was good for him he would turn around and get out of here while that was still an option. Instead, his shoulders are loose and his expression relaxed.

He thinks he is just fighting some twenty-two year old punk. He has no idea it is the last thing he'll ever do.

I feel numb inside. I've shut myself off completely. It's the only way to see this through. My eyes are hard and unblinking and my opponent eagerly circles me. He's eating up the attention and bouncing on his feet like a fucking child. He should be ashamed of himself. I stay perfectly still in my corner of the ring. Not because I am scared or nervous by any means—but because I know how easy this will be. This will be over before it has the chance to begin.

"You're prepared?" Father asks in my ear.

"You should know better than to ask me that," I respond flatly. After all, he is the one who trained me. If you train at the hands of Abram since before you could even walk, as I have, than the outcome of the match is all too clear.

Father scoffs but I know it's to conceal smug laughter. He knows as well as I do that I am just as good a fighter he is. Better even, though we both pretend that's not the case. Ego is all a man has sometimes.

"This is your only chance," He reminds me as if he hasn't been chanting the same fucking thing for years now. "This is where you prove yourself. If you are to be the youngest gang leader this city has ever witnessed, you must leave no room for doubt. Is that clear?"

If he wants me to be the leader so badly, why not simply trust in my abilities as I do? It's a response he wouldn't appreciate so I settle on a disinterested, "Yes."

"Good."

There is no praise in it. It's just a word spoken for the sake of response. In all my years I have never been praised and I don't expect to be. I don't expect anything from anyone. I wouldn't be the machine I am if I did. I would be human, which is something I can't afford in the life I've been brought into. If I was human, I would have regrets. If I had regrets, I would drown under the weight of them. It is a matter of survival and that means no one can stand in my way or they get taken down too.

"You're familiar with the rules." Byron's commanding voice overtakes the noise and a hush falls around us. As my father's right-hand man, he is just as feared as Abram himself. Not exactly the same but enough that we all are wise enough not to cross him. "You select a weapon of choice. You fight. Only one man leaves the ring breathing. Proceed."

Two henchman step inside holding a selection of weapons. My opponent chooses a flail—a metal rod with a spiked ball attached at the end. What he hopes to achieve with that is futile because he won't have the chance to wield it if he's fighting me. He smirks like I should be afraid, when he should only be worried about himself. I don't so much as glance at him as I grab the brass knuckles and fit them on to my hand. The brass have little protruding spikes in them that, although small, cut deep and clean. It's not the most effective weapon but if you can fight with skill and precision, it is deadly. Maybe that's why my opponent guffaws at me. He really is ignorant and it makes any semblance of guilt I might have had evaporate. He should be humble if he expects mercy and now, he won't receive any.

The cheers resume when Byron steps out of the ring. Any minute now he will call for us to begin. I pull in a deep breath through my nose to relax my muscles. I flex my fighting hand to loosen it and open my legs for better stance.

Fighting is in my nature. I would say second nature but it's instilled much deeper than that. Fighting is what I am made of so here, in this ring, feels like home. This is where I belong. This is what I was born to do. It's why I'm not nervous or anxious for what is about to happen. I'm too agile to lose my upper hand, too skilled to lose, and too cold to be afraid. This will only take a matter of seconds.

"Begin!" Byron commands.

Roars thunder around the warehouse and rattle the walls. The men have gone ballistic with testosterone and anticipation. They are ready for the fight they were promised—the fight to see who will be the next leader of the South Bloods.

My opponent was the only man stupid enough to claim he should be leader. The title has always been mine but he underestimates me. He mistakes me for a child, and I will defeat him and make him less of a man for it.

He swings his flail, the spiked ball whipping through the air and cutting the atmosphere in half. Idiot. He stumbles forward with the weight as I predicted and he's now close enough for me to reach him. It's a mere second, if that, where he glances up to meet my eyes. His are afraid, pooling with the realization of his grave mistake, and mine are void of any emotion. He has only himself to blame.

My hand grips his shoulder as he keels over me. His frame, slightly taller than mine, bends to eye-level. I keep mine latched onto his and my other arm whips up so the brass knuckles connect with his throat. His mouth falls open and fails to pull in the oxygen he was hoping to gather. My stare is unblinking as I yank the spikes out of his throat, not even registering the splatter of blood that shoots all over my chest and face. He falls to his knees, mouth open and desperately clawing at air. Blood flows out of him in large spurts and colours the white canvas beneath us. In seconds his eyes roll to the back of his head until only the whites are visible and his body crumples to the ground. Dead. Ten seconds into our fight.

Nobody is shocked. We all knew this man had a death wish the moment he thought he could fight me for my throne. There is not even a second to mourn for his lifeless body, even as blood continues to seep out of him and drain him of his soul. The cheering intensifies as men smack the walls and floors and howl into the night. The warehouse fills up with the sound of victory and the stench of death. I feel none of it.

"It is done!" Father bellows. He enters the ring and raises my fist to the air. Vicious roars greet me. I keep my jaw locked and my eyes vacant. They will fear me from this moment on. "Bow to your new leader!"

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A/N

To those who are new, welcome. I am TheFeveredBookaholic. If you are familiar with my stories, this novella is something you have been waiting for. If you are new, I hope this novella will encourage you to read the rest of my works.

And so begins our journey of Greg Resnick. How do we like it so far?

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