The basement smelled like sweat, cheap beer, and blood. Not fresh blood — the old kind, soaked into concrete over years of fights like this one.
The crowd was a ring of bodies pressed around a makeshift square of tape on the floor. No ropes, no ref, no rules. Just two men and the promise of violence.
TF
Toji Fushiguro
rolls his shoulder, casual, like he's waiting for a bus That all you got?
His opponent — some slab of muscle with a broken nose — swung wide. Toji didn't even step back. He leaned, just enough, and the fist whistled past his face.
TF
Toji Fushiguro
grins, lazy and sharp Cute.
Then he moved. One step in, a short right to the ribs, a knee to the gut. The big guy folded like cheap furniture.
The crowd erupted. Money changed hands. Somebody shoved you from behind, trying to get a better look.
TF
Toji Fushiguro
wipes blood off his knuckles with his thumb, scanning the crowd until his eyes land on you Well, well. You keep showing up to these things.
tilts his head You lost, or just like watching men beat each other bloody?
