◤"Time traveler's rule number one: never get attached to people, places, or things. Never."
◤Disclaimers: Fluff and some angst if you look through a microscope. May contain violence. Boxer/time travel au.
◤Word count: 13.6K
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One.
Chan heaved a breath, blinking the pain away. He had to focus. He felt every muscle in his body cry in pain as he pushed himself up, his numbness growing with the crowd's cheers. He sniffled, using a weary hand to wipe the blood dripping from his lower lip. It stung, but pain was the only family he knew. He looked bad, he was aware, and he also knew that his opponent was having it worse.
On the other side of the ring, the man he'd been fighting was struggling to stand. He must've been crazed, for Chan heard a voice in his head, pleading he'd stand and continue the match with dignity.
"Get up, get up," people chanted, and as if their chants were fuel, the man picked himself up with wobbling limbs. He spat on the ground, but the fluid came out red with blood. Years ago, Chan would've cringed at the sight, but even he tasted blood in his mouth now.
The glare shot towards him by his opponent was murderous, barbaric, as if that man turned into a beast of the wild.
Pathetic, Chan managed to think, it must suck to lose against a younger opponent.
As if hearing his remark, the man lunged at Chan with a strangled cry, throwing punches wherever his arms reached. It was the last burst of energy before his system quit. Chan flexed his fingers, feeling his rings scratch against each other, hearing the crowd roar. He was used to this, this hopeless fit of anger, this denial, but sadly, he had to cut it short. A prize awaits. So when his opponent reached him, intending to crush his bones under his weight, Chan had him in a headlock, throwing him off balance and sending him hurtling to the roped barrier. It took the last fraction of his energy, but Chan fought to stay standing, refusing to collapse until he heard the referee's whistle. The man twisted and turned on the ground, possibly groaning in pain as the audience counted, "one! Two! Three!"
Three. Then a whistle, a pop of champagne, and cheers. Chan won. A crazed, exhilarated laugh found its way out of his body, and Chan let his head fall back, laughing into air that reeked of blood, sweat, and all things gore.
He swung over the ropes, landing outside the ring with a wince. Chan picked up his black hoodie, throwing it over his head and shrugging it on. His hand automatically went to his neck, making sure his precious lucky charm was still intact. It was a small key his grandmother handed down to him, claiming it was the most precious relic the family owned, and he'd put it in a chain to carry that token with him everywhere. It was a reminder of a life he once lived.
The crowd near him did not get any quieter, he spotted the young and the old, all willing to pay for this horrid form of entertainment. Some shouted his name with pride, while some cursed him for making them lose their bets, whatever it was, he still got his money.
