Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I wiped the blood off my nose, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The skin around my nostrils was already swelling, but nothing I couldn't fix. Treyvon, always playing nurse, wiped the sweat from my forehead, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Why do you even wanna fight if you're just gonna lose every time?" he asked, his voice heavy with annoyance.
I pushed his hand away, leaning closer to the mirror, studying my nose. Shit. It was broken. "Told you before, I just like the thrill of it. Ain't gotta fight to win."
Despite me brushing him off, Treyvon stayed close, still dabbing at my forehead with the edge of his shirt. "Crazy ass," he muttered, but I could hear the hint of a smile.
Fighting's always been my language, my outlet. When I was a kid, Mama and Dad tried to tame me, telling me I needed a healthier way to express myself. They tried sticking me in art classes—like sketching some trees would calm the storm inside me. It didn't. By the time I hit my teenage years, I found underground street fighting, a place where the rules didn't exist, and strength spoke louder than words. The first time I fought, I put some dude in the hospital.
That's when I realized humans break too easily. They ain't built for this, not like wolves. When I fight now, I've gotta hold back, use half my strength, maybe less. A single roundhouse kick could end them, and that ain't what I'm trying to do.
For wolves, it's different. Fighting isn't just about rage. It's about proving yourself, earning respect. Even when I lose, it doesn't take away from the pride I feel in standing my ground. So, as the blood drips down my face, my chest hums with satisfaction.
Treyvon left to get me some water, and I adjusted my nose, wincing as it cracked back into place. It'd heal fast enough. No need for it to heal crooked.
"You did good tonight," came a voice from the corner. Rebecca, the chick I'd just fought, leaned against the table, unwrapping the boxing tape from her knuckles. "Proud of you, kid."
I glanced at her through the mirror. "Yeah, thanks," I replied flatly. I could smell the smugness radiating off her, like she thought she was untouchable just 'cause she landed a couple of hits. She broke my nose, bruised my ribs. But none of that mattered.
"Really stood your ground," she continued. "Most would've tapped out."
I didn't respond, just watched her reflection as she shook out her damp, sandy hair. She looked cocky, her smile flashing despite losing a tooth in a past fight. I'd seen that same look too many times before. People thought they knew me, thought they understood what made me tick. They didn't.
"Yeah, most people," I muttered, half-listening.
"And you're nothin' like them," she pushed on. "I remember your first fight. You were good. Real good. Thought I'd see more of that, but you started losing. It's like you're not even trying anymore."
