The blood is always the worst part.

The screaming, the swearing, the crunch of my fist against flesh has nothing on the blood. The blood is life, spilling out onto the mats.

My bare feet slip in it as I circle the ring, dodging some blows, allowing others to land. An inescapable obstacle in nearly every match I’ve ever fought.

And it is never mine.

There is an art to this— a skill that involves drawing my opponent’s blood while still managing to lose.

They call it match-fixing. Taking a dive. It is illegal in every sport and in all situations, but for me it is life. Biting down on my mouthpiece and dropping my hands has become as natural as breathing to me.

My parents would disapprove. They would tell me that nothing is worth the lying— that it pays to be honest. But they are no longer here, and the feeling of food in my belly and a light in my brother’s eyes is well worth all of the lies.

But it never gets any easier.

I circle the cage, faking and drawing the girl across from me into making a mistake. She leans her head in too much on the way in. Stupid. I take the glancing blow and aim my glove for the side of her face. Hard and close enough to draw blood. Never to knock her out.

The crowd surrounding us screams and swears, the remarks mostly off-color. After two years of this, I am used to it. They question my birth, my honor, my gender. But mostly my gender. Most people don’t watch the girls fight for the actual fights. We are here for looks alone.

I bait my opponent into flinching, her eyes wide as my jab barely misses her jaw. My muscles thrill to the challenge, and my momentum carries me forward as I back her towards the edge of the rickety ring. One day I expect the ring to fall apart. One good blow would likely collapse the whole thing. But today I am not going for that. Today I am here to win.

I throw a kick to the side of her leg, the snap of flesh and the impending roar of the crowd flashing through my ears. Our breathing is thick and heavy— mingled with the screaming—cries for blood. This match has gone on for too long.

I dodge a sloppy kick to my own thigh, and watch as her knuckles glance off my chin. Too slow. I drive her back to the edge of the ring again, watching as each blow weakens her stance— as the fighting energy leaves her body. Then I risk a glance at the side of the ring.

Mattes. My handler. His eyes cold as he meets my gaze. His gaze snaps to the clock as it counts down, then returns to me. He shakes his head. Too much. I am doing too well. I dodge another blow between glances, and watch him again. He waves my rent money over his head, and my stomach drops violently.

That money is life. That money is food, a place to live, my brother’s happiness. Everything goes quiet around me as I block another kick, and throw a jab out, my muscles screaming, sweat running down my face. I could win this match. I could.

But it isn’t worth it. It is never worth it. A week’s survival in exchange for the glory, the prestige and money that comes with victory. But I can’t afford victory.

The clock ticks down, the screaming turning into numbers as the match winds to a finish. I throw a slow punch and purposefully miss, leaving my entire jawline exposed. My opponent is bad, but not stupid. She slams her fist into my jaw without hesitation.

Stars invade my vision, and I let myself fall to the mat.

From the slick mat, with the air heavy with sweat, the clanging of bells, and the roar of the crowd, I heave a sigh. Safe for another week.

* * *

“What the hell was that?” Mattes slams his hand into the locker behind me, the clang echoing through the small room. “I give you one job, and you almost blew it. Do you realize that—”

“It won’t happen again,” I mutter.

“Kestril.” He says my name calmly, but the edge is not gone from his voice. I used to flinch whenever Mattes flew into a rage like this one. Now I hardly blink. “There are people more powerful than you or me, who have a lot of money on the line. They don’t like underdogs. They don’t want to see the designated loser out there making their champ look bad. Do you understand that?” A fleck of spit flies from his mouth to land on my face, and I try to be amused instead of revolted by the way his veins pop out from his neck.

“I said it won’t happen again.”

“You keep saying that,” he says, his voice quiet. He drops it even lower before speaking again. “Let me make this clear one more time.” His voice is dangerous, his tone even. I am more afraid of his calm than I am of his rage. “You’re paid the money, you take the dive, and you do a damn good job of acting the part. Otherwise, you’re out. Understand?” I glare at the rent money in his hand, my life sustenance for the next week. I have no choice. Mattes slams his hand into the locker again, and I can’t help it— I flinch. “I asked if you understood.”

“Yes sir.” My voice is quiet and broken. Not at all the way I feel in the ring. But this is my only choice. Mattes smiles, stubble decorating his chin.

“I’m glad we understand each other.” He tosses the money on the floor in front of my feet and leaves the locker room.

* * *

“Are you crazy?” My brother’s voice booms and cracks throughout our small apartment as I dig through several drawers full of gauze and medical supplies. I find the cotton balls and antiseptic, and dab gently at one of the many small cuts on my face, wincing.

“I told you. This is the only way to pay for this dump. Welcome to the adult world.” I hiss as the antiseptic sizzles into my cut. I am used to taking shots to the face, but the sting of the antiseptic always feels worse to me. Oliver throws himself down on his tiny bed in the corner of the room, the springs groaning as his adult weight crushes into the frame.

“Can’t you just get a real job or something?” he demands. I sigh, flinching as I attend to another cut.

“We’ve been over that,” I tell him. “You know they won’t let me, and I’d rather stay in school so I don’t end up like you— ow!” A pillow smacks me in the back of my still-sore head before I can finish my sentence, and I turn to glare at my brother. “It was a joke, alright? I’d kill to have grades like yours.”

“I believe that,” he quips, his face carefully blank. Some sort of disgusted noise comes out of my mouth as I turn around and put the lid on the antiseptic before it can slosh over the tacky, stained carpet again.

“I don’t get it,” Oliver says, throwing his feet up on the wall. “Why wouldn’t they let you have a normal job? Why does it matter?”

“Because they think it interferes with our studies,” I say. Oliver snorts from somewhere in the corner.

“And getting beaten to a tar doesn’t?”

“Well it’s not like they’d let me do this if they knew about it.”

“You need to stop. It’s not healthy.” I heave a sigh, but I don’t turn around to face him. I can’t bring up the old argument again. I am too tired to deal with it.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather live in this dump, than with some weird foster parents,” I tell him. “We only have one more year.” One year until we become legal adults. One year until we no longer have to hide, worried that someone will turn us in.

“I’m not worried about the dump, Kess. I’m worried about you.”

I know that. But I can’t give him the answer he wants to hear. I can’t tell him that I won’t give up the fighting as long as it keeps food on the table, and us out of the foster care system.

Oliver continues to grouse at me from the corner, but I ignore him, wrapping my battered wrist up so it doesn’t protest every movement. I catch my own eyes in the mirror, and pause, wondering what the damage is this time. My auburn hair falls in waves down my shoulders, and dark blue eyes stare back at me. No black eyes this time. So far so good. Small lacerations decorate my face, and a few mottled bruises show, but overall I have escaped the worst of it.

I finish wrapping my wrist, securing a knot at the end, and tuck everything back into the drawer. Oliver’s voice softens as it floats across the room.

“One more year, huh?” he says quietly. “Has it been that long already?” I say nothing, opting to search for a hooded shirt instead. I find one and pull it gingerly over my sore face, trying not to think about Oliver’s comment. It has been almost 4 years since our parents disappeared, and the ache is no less sore. Sometimes I wonder how my life would be different. Would I be getting thrashed in a ring to earn rent and med school money for my brother? Would my life be one gigantic lie as I tried to keep us safe?

I shake my head, trying to clear it, but end up wincing instead. I try to cover the wince with a reach for my school notebook, but Oliver’s gaze is too quick. Instantly he snaps back to our oldest argument.

“Kess.”

“I already know what you’re going to say, and I’m not stopping,” I say, plopping down in the opposite corner with my notebook. My body is already sluggish, and I hardly want this fight with my brother now, when I can barely move.

“You’re ruining yourself. People ask me questions at school, you know.”

“I don’t care. You get school paid for, I get to stay in school, and we get to run our own lives. Everyone’s happy.” For a brief second I think I’ve won the fight, but I am gravely mistaken. I catch his eyes above my school notebook and feel my hope sink. His eyes, which are normally so engrossed in whatever book he’s obsessed with, are pinned on me, his book hanging limp in his hands. He shuts it and throws it down, swearing.

“Everyone is not happy, Kestril.” He says my full name like a swear word, and I wince, but he isn’t done yet. “Do you think I like coming home to see you like this? You think money is worth this?” A scowl starts to form on my face as I listen to his rant. I mean to stay quiet; Oliver almost never loses his temper, and when he does, it’s best to stay out of it. But I can’t help it.

“But I like the fights,” I say quietly. More swearing from my brother, and an exasperated sound that lies somewhere between a shout and a sigh. I can only stare, because I’ve heard my brother swear all of two or three times in my life.

“Well I don’t,” he says flatly. He begins to pace the room, his tall frame running out of room every two or three steps. He stops briefly to glare at me in my corner of the room. “Can’t you at least win a few fights?” he demands. “Don’t tell me you’re not good enough to. I know you are.” I let the air leave my lungs as I meet my brother’s dark blue gaze, so much like my own. His own auburn hair is tousled from the force of his fingers running through it.

“Winning fights isn’t enough,” I tell him. “The money isn’t for sure. And it doesn’t pay as much as—”

“Like hell it doesn’t, Kess! How do people make careers out of it, then?” I shut my notebook, giving up on schoolwork.

“Not at this level,” I say. My voice is surprisingly level. Maybe I’ve had this argument with my brother so many times that the life is gone from me. “At this level it pays more to do what they say and dive the fights. I don’t have the time to train for anything more. You know that.”

For several long, tense seconds, Oliver freezes, his mouth trying to form words. Finally he throws himself down on his bed, scowling. My shoulders relax, and I reach to pick up my notebook again, but then I see Oliver shoot back to a sitting position, his eyes locked on mine. Not good. I freeze, my hand still hovering over the notebook.

“No more,” he says quietly. His eyes never leave my face. “I hate the fights. I’m tired of watching you come home like this.” I open my mouth to argue back, but change my mind before words form. Oliver can’t understand the thrill of the matches. He doesn’t understand that if I have to do something to keep us off the streets, this is far preferable to anything else. “Stop fighting, or I’ll quit school.” I snort, a smile forming on my face. “I’m serious,” he says.

“You’re not,” I tell him, reaching for my notebook again. I open it to the page of math—Oliver’s favorite subject, and pick up a pencil. Oliver says nothing, but instead reaches into his bag and fumbles through it. I am determined to start on my math homework and ignore my brother’s silly threats, but from the corner of my eye I see him dig a sheet of paper out. The rustling meets my ears, and I freeze again, the pencil poised on the page. Oliver says nothing, only holds the paper out in front of him, his eyes on my face.

“What is that?” My voice is toneless. The air between us hums. Still, my brother refuses to say anything. So I dump my notebook on the ground, and get to my feet, wincing as muscles pull in my leg. I scowl at him and snatch the paper from his hands.

A withdrawal request. A new school Oliver is supposedly transferring to. And below it all, a carefully penned copy of our mother’s signature. A signature I forced him to practice and perfect endlessly a few years ago. A signature that was the key to our freedom, but now is the worst possible tool my brother could use against me. Oliver’s voice is smug as he watches me scan the paper.

“Fight again, and that gets into the appropriate official hands.” My own hands twitch as I hold the paper, inches from tearing it. “Oh, and before you think of destroying it, I have copies. I’m not dumb,” he says, his eyes cold. I can’t tear it. So instead, I throw it into his lap and storm towards the door, my homework entirely forgotten. I place one hand on the rickety doorknob, and freeze, tracing the grain with my eyes.

“You realize if I stop fighting, we have nowhere to go,” I say. It isn’t a question. A sigh escapes my brother from somewhere behind me.

“Kess, there are places to go. Foster homes, safe houses, anywhere. I’m tired of you being beaten up just so we don’t have to ask for help. It’s insane.”

Silence stretches before us. Insane. I’m not sure what the definition is anymore. But I can’t give up fighting. I won’t. My brother shifts on the bed. His voice is gentle.

“It doesn’t hurt to ask for help.”

“We don’t need help,” I say to the door. “We just need time.”

Before he can reply, I leave the room, shutting the door on the echoes of his voice in my head.