Page 84 of Morally Corrupt

ADRIAN

SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

In the aftermath of my parents' murder, I learned one thing. No matter how smart, a kid is just a kid. And no one takes a kid seriously.

I'd spent so much time trying to make the police see that there was no robbery, but it was soon apparent they'd never listen to a fourteen-year-old. Not even when I'd told them about the stranger, Greg, and the list my parents had given him.

"This isn't a conspiracy theory, kid," one cop had told me.

I'd had to grit my teeth and move on, knowing that I had to do it myself if I truly wanted to make a difference.

But being a minor, the system had other plans for me. Most of which involved a succession of foster homes in the Boston area. I'd been in two homes before I eventually realized it wasn't for me. The first one had been fine, if fine is defined by the minimum required to sustain life. I'd been moved from that one when there had been one too many arrivals, all of them under ten.

The second home, however, housed another three teenage boys. I realized from the first meeting that once bullied, always bullied.

They'd taken one look at my scrawny self, scoffed, and made my life a living hell. I'd been there three months before cuts and bruises accumulated to such a degree that normal activities became a chore. I would trudge my way instead of walk because I probably had some broken bones. For those kids, that meant weakness, and it was open season to do worse.

The night I'd escaped, I'd barely been able to move. I'd stolen a bike and pedaled as fast and as much as I could until I'd crashed at some point.

Maybe it'd been my luck, or retrospectively my misfortune, but the spot I'd fallen had non-ironically been near Basilica of Our Lady of Perpetual Help.

I'd lost consciousness at some point, but I'd woken up to find myself on a warm bed, with all my wounds taken care of. They'd taken a good look at me and understood I was a runaway, and as such, they'd offered to let me stay there.

The Basilica also had a grammar school in which I'd promptly been enrolled. It all seemed too good to be true until I'd realized just how I was supposed to pay for my upkeep.

For a bony kid who'd always been picked on, the chance to learn how to fight while making money on the side seemed like heaven sent literally.

I also saw it as my chance to make something of myself, so I could get to Jimenez in the future.

I trained, maybe harder than everyone in my quarters. It wasn't long before I had my first successful fight. After that, it was a series of easy wins, most of them due to an ever-increasing muscle mass and a sudden growth spurt.

By the beginning of my sixteenth year, I was as big and thick as any of the older fighters. This seemed to entertain the elders as they gave me matches with more seasoned fighters each time. When I'd won my hardest victory yet, I'd also taken the notice of a certain Andrew Gallagher. He was visiting for new recruits when he'd decided I'd come with him.

From my small game fights to Gallagher's pit fights, there was a world of difference. I quickly understood that in this new environment, it was kill or be killed.

Literally.

Andrew's pit fights weren't your regular MMA fights. They were vicious, fight for your life type of battles. This was where the real money was made. There were several arenas in use throughout Boston, each of them alternated for different fights. The legality or illegality of it was as glaring as making minors fight for their food.

But I recognized it for what it was—my chance at surviving in this cutthroat world and making connections while doing so. I'd quickly realize what the name Jimenez meant in the underground world. And if there was one way to fight a fire, it was with fire.

From my first fight, my first kill, my first foray into pit fights, I strove to become the best.

Andrew's pet, they called me. They weren't wrong. I was biddable but deadly. In their minds, the best combination.

It's been two years now. Two years in which I'd fought almost weekly on Andrew's stage. Two years in which the corpses had accumulated, and my hands had bathed in blood. Two years in which I watched my humanity seep out of my body with each strike of my fists.

I look at the swollen skin on my knuckles and sigh, dragging the bandage over and securing it in place. I stand and take in my meager accommodations. It's a small room with a single bed and an adjacent bathroom. For all my earnings during these years, I prefer a Spartan lifestyle. I go to the bathroom and take out some ointment from the mirror cupboard. I scrutinize my battered face for any open wounds, applying generously at the corner of my mouth and under my eye. The last bastard I'd fought had gotten me good in the face a couple of times.

The more successful I became in the arena the less time I had between fights. Logically, it didn't make sense if you had your fighter's top shape in mind. But these pits maximized on usefulness. For them, everyone had a shelf life, so it was better to squeeze every bit of profit before it was too late.

My last fight had been a mere four days ago. And yet, tomorrow I'm scheduled for another one.

With a sigh, I leave my room and head to the gym to continue my training.

The minute I enter, an older man looks me up and down.

"You Andrew's boy?"

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