Chapter 8 - The Weigh-In at Midnight
Thursday night settled over the harbor like a wet wool blanket. In the back room of a shuttered auto-repair shop adjacent to Hector’s pit, a rusted hanging balance scale swung gently under a bare yellow incandescent bulb.
The air was dense with the smell of exhaust, damp concrete, and cheap cologne. A dozen high-stakes bookmakers and pit enforcers crowded around the perimeter, their faces shrouded in cigarette smoke.
Frank entered first, accompanied only by Maya. He wore an old gray hooded sweatshirt, hands buried deep in the pocket. His face was drawn, cheeks sunken from cutting twelve pounds of water weight in twenty-four hours to make the agreed two-hundred-pound cruiserweight limit. The cut on his cheek was sealed with surgical butterfly bandages.
Hector sat on a steel stool beside the scale, a thick stack of green bills resting on his knee. ""Frankie. Step up, let's see if the old iron still has mass.""
Frank stripped off his sweatshirt and shoes. His torso was corded with dense, leathery muscle, but crisscrossed with pale scar tissue over his ribs and abdomen. He stepped onto the cold iron platform.
The weights rattled. The needle settled precisely at one hundred and ninety-eight pounds.
""Weight is good,"" Hector announced, scribbling in his ledger.
At that moment, the side door opened, and Marcus walked in flanked by four burly bodyguards and Viktor. Marcus had completely shed his gym humility. He was wearing custom satin shorts, his braided twists pulled back tightly, headphones draped around his neck. His physique was chiseled from polished mahogany—veins branching across his shoulders like roadmaps.
Marcus stepped onto the scale without taking off his headphones. The counterweight balanced at two hundred and two pounds.
""Two pounds over,"" Maya called out instantly, her voice cutting through the male murmurs.
Viktor smiled thinly from the back row. ""Catchweight allowance was agreed upon in clause 6.""
""There was no catchweight allowance,"" Frank said, stepping down from the scale. His voice was raspy from dehydration, but it carried an undeniable chill. ""Two hundred is the limit. He burns the two pounds or the purse gets docked twenty percent.""
Marcus pulled down his headphones, stepping directly into Frank’s face. The physical contrast was jarring: youthful, glistening perfection versus weathered, scarred endurance.
""Keep the money, old man,"" Marcus sneered, his breath hot against Frank’s nose. ""You’re gonna need every dime of that twenty percent for the neuro intensive care unit tomorrow night.""
Frank did not flinch, blink, or raise his chin. He met Marcus’s eyes with a gaze so hollow and merciless that the younger fighter’s confident smirk flickered for a fraction of a second.
""You talk like a man who has never been truly hurt,"" Frank whispered softly. ""Tomorrow, you find out what happens when the bell doesn't ring to save you.""
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Marcus reached out to shove Frank’s chest, but before his fingers could connect, Maya stepped between them, glaring up at Marcus with unfiltered contempt.
""Save it for the pit, Marcus,"" she said. ""Don't break your hands before we take your future.""
