BLOOD ON THE CANVAS: THE PRICE OF TRUE DISCIPLINE

Friday night arrived wrapped in a freezing drizzle that turned the harbor streets into black glass. Outside the red door, luxury sedans and rusted pickup trucks were parked bumper to bumper along the crumbling docks. Men in wool trench coats stood by the corners, collecting entry fees in cash.

Beneath the street, the pit room was an inferno of sound.

Over two hundred spectators packed the wooden bleachers and crowded the iron catwalks above the timber pit. Shouts and obscenities bounced off the damp brick walls. The barbed-wire-wrapped timbers creaked under the weight of leaning bodies. Smoke from cigars hung so thick beneath the low ceiling that the overhead halogen work-lights cast eerie, amber beams through the haze.

In the damp storage room serving as Frank’s dressing room, the only sound was the rhythmic slap of tape.

Maya worked meticulously on Frank’s right hand, layering thin gauze and heavy athletic tape over his knuckles according to pit rules. No padded gloves. Just six wraps of tape over the joints, leaving the skin of the knuckles barely buffered from impact.

""How does that feel?"" she asked, smoothing the final strip over his wrist.

Frank made a fist. The tape pulled taut, transforming his hand into an unyielding block of bone and canvas. ""Good. Tight.""

The door swung open, and Hector poked his round head inside. ""Five minutes, Frankie. Marcus is already in the pit. The money on him is ten-to-one. If you pull off a miracle tonight, half the syndicate bosses in this city go broke.""

""I'm not fighting for your bookies, Hector,"" Frank said, rising from the wooden bench.

""Just make sure you don't drop in the first two minutes,"" Hector muttered, closing the door. ""Give 'em a show.""

Maya handed Frank an old red towel. She looked into his eyes, her jaw set firm. ""Remember: round one, he’ll try to overwhelm you with forward volume. Don't fight him in the middle. Let him punch himself out against the timbers. Keep the right hand glued to your chin.""

Frank put a hand on her uninjured shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. ""Take the purse voucher if things go sideways. Ensure the deed is transferred back to the gym.""

""You're walking out of here with the deed yourself, Frank,"" she replied, her voice shaking slightly despite her bravado. ""No alternatives.""

Frank nodded once. He stepped out of the room and into the roaring corridor.

As he walked down the wooden ramp leading into the pit, the crowd erupted into a deafening mix of jeers, whistles, and drunken cheers. Across the sunken circle, Marcus stood under the bright glare of the halogen lights, bouncing aggressively, eyes burning with cruel anticipation.

Behind Marcus, Viktor leaned against the timber post, checking his gold wristwatch with bored certainty.

Frank climbed through the ropes, his bare feet gripping the sand-dusted floorboards. The referee—a scarred former bare-knuckle champion with cauliflower ears—beckoned both men to the center.

""No eye-gouging. No groin strikes. When a man hits the deck, you give him three seconds to find his feet. Outside of that, anything goes until one of you quits or goes to sleep. Touch knuckles.""