The jarring peal of a bell split the air, and an opponent swaggered out from the dark recess of the steel doors. But he didn't move. He stood like a statue carved from boredom, his head slightly bowed, his focus on nothing in particular. While the fighter bounced on the balls of his feet, brimming with restless, violent energy, Vincenzo was perfectly still. The tension, the noise, the promise of brawl- none of it touched him. His indifference was a heavier weapon than any fist, communicating with a simple message: this was a formality, not a fight, and he couldn't be bothered to pretend it was anything else.
The veteran fighter, known for his cold stare and brutal efficiency, felt a white-hot spike of indignation when his opponent just...yawned. He had just finished a litany of threats, detailing the creative ways he would dismantle the younger man, and Vincenzo's response was nothing but a slow, theatrical strech. It wasn't defiance, not rage- it was something far worse. It was the blank, unbothered weariness of a man who saw a dog barking and simply wanted it to stop.
The fighter's sneer tightened into a rigid, dangerous line. "You think this is a joke?" he spat, his voice low and vibrating with a fury he rarely bothered to show. "I'm going to make you wish you'd never stepped in this ring. I'm going to make you scream my name."
Vincenzo tilted his head, his dark, placid eyes finally meeting the fighter's, but they held no malice. Only a vast, empty space. He flexed his wrists, the sound of his knuckles cracking a dry, perfunctory pop in the silence. "Save it," he said, his voice a flat, uninflected monotone. "Either start, or I'll be really bored."
***
With his bored warning barely a whisper, the fighter became a blur of motion. His fists were pistons, a brutal, rhythmic thud against flesh and bone. He landed a jackhammer combination to the ribs, another to the jaw, relentless and fast as a striking snake. Vincenzo took it all, a placid statue absorbing punishment, a faint, growing glint in his eyes the only sign that the blows were doing their job- not breaking him, but waking him up.
The low hum of a hundred murmuring voices filled the cavernous, smoke-stained warehouse, but at the VIP table, only one voice mattered. The underworld boss, Alexander, leaned back in his leather chair, a cynical smirk playing on his lips as he watched the opening moments of the bout. His men, phalanx of polished suits and menacing glares, mimicked his posture, their laughter sharp and cruel as it cut through the din. In the ring, the crowd's champion landed a heavy blow to Vincenzo's jaw, a strike that should have folded any fighter. But the newcomer- a scrawny kid who seemed lost in the fluorescent lights- simply absorbed it, a slow, almost lazy sway the only sign he'd been hit.
***
The crowd roared with a blood thirsty cheer for their hero, utterly oblivious to the carefully choreographed theatre. They saw a clumsy amateur taking a beating, a prelude to a quick and brutal knockout. Alexander, however, saw something different. He gestured to his lieutenant with a flick of his wrist. "Look at that," he said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. " The kid's soaking it all up. He's not hurt. He's inviting it." His lieutenant, a hulking man with a scar running across his eyebrow, frowned. "He's just an amateur, boss. He's not even fighting back."
Alexander laughed, a dry, humourless sound that sent a shiver through the men at the table. "Exactly. He's letting the mutt get comfortable. He's measuring him. This isn't a brawl, it's a diagnosis. The fool is giving him all the information he needs." The men shifted in their seats, their confident smirks giving away to a flicker of unease. They watched the ring with newfound intensity, trying to read the newcomer, but all they saw was a boy being systematically dismantled. They had come for a spectacle, a brutal ballet of fists and feet, and in their focus on the flashy display of power, they were blind to the quiet, methodical calculation unfolding before them.
Alexander took a slow sip of his whiskey, the ice clinking softly in the silence around his table. "Enjoy the last act, boys," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the ring. "The curtain is about to drop."
***
He has soaked up every blow like a sponge, a hollow, unresponsive thing absorbing the fighter's frantic assault. The crowd roared once again with each punch, but the sound was muted in his ears, a distant hum. He had been learning, not enduring. As the fighter wound up for one final, desperate flurry, Vincenzo moved. It was a single, fluid motion- a leg unfolding like a switchable, the sole of his boot connecting with a pinpoint of devastating accuracy. A jolt of electric ice shot through the fighter's nervous system. His body, once a whirlwind of muscle, locked in place mid-lung, arms frozen in useless guard. The roaring crowd vanished, replaced by the ghost of twisted, mirthless smile that played across his lips. The message was clear: the dance was over, and control had never left his hands.
The men in the audience, used to gruesome spectacles, exchanged wide-eyed, disbelieving glances. They watched as Vincenzo, moving without a trace of hurry, simply stepped away and began to walk toward the exit, his back to the victory. On the dais, Alexander, a man whose features were usually as unreadable as stone, stared openly. A slow, thin smile spread across his face as he took a long drag from his cigar.
"See that?" he murmured, the question a low rumble intended only for his closest advisor. The advisor merely shook his head, speechless. Alexander turned his head slightly, a cold fire in his eyes." Didn't just beat our fighter. He broke the connection between his mind and his legs. A nerve-strike." He let out a low humourless chuckle. "Tell him that he passed the test. And, officially welcome him to our family."
***
Behind the scene~
The Author's frustrated shouting gave away to a concerned mutter. "Mark? Are you...okay?" She took a few tentative steps toward fighter, still frozen in his defiant lunge. "Did the wire get tangled?"
Vincenzo, sipping from a can of soda, walked past the tableau. "Nah, he's fine. Just gave him the full-body nerve lock. Didn't you hear me mention it during blocking?"
The stunt coordinator's head whipped around. "You did what?"
"The accupunture," Vincenzo said, as if it were obvious. " Needed it to sell the scene. Really sell it. I'll get him going again in a sec." He finished his drink, crushed the can, and tossed into recycling bin before sauntering over to the frozen fighter.
The fighter's eyes, locked in a ferocious glare, followed the can's trajectory. A tear slowly dripped down his cheek. He had been watching that can sail into the bin for a full minute, unable to even twitch.
To be continued...