Page 4 of From Best To Bested

Roman had waited nearly two months after his arrival at Marlow Penitentiary before daring to step down into the arena. He waited another month before stepping into his first match.It’d been nearly six months before he was bold enough to make for the Challenger’s Chance and challenge the former champion.

“Catch your breath, kid,” Roman said as if he were some sage old man.

Truthfully, he and Ezra looked about the same age. Hell, Ezra might’ve even had a year or two on him. Still, with the man stumbling and panting for desperate breaths as his entire body trembled, Roman couldn’t help but feel he looked down at a desperate, young kid. Roman recalled being that young, that sloppy, years before his incarceration, years before he found his way out of the darkness of his life, not that he got very far considering where he stood now.

Ezra had great moves, natural skills, but he was sloppy. When this was finished, Roman would help train Ezra.

Roman turned to the crowd, raising his arms and demanding their cheers. The authority above applauded, and the inmates below shouted. Everyone wanted blood. Demanded it. Roman let them rage, let them roar, and he did his best to think of the best way to knock Ezra out so it’d make everyone’s night without completely ruining Ezra’s.

Roman turned to face Ezra one final time and found he’d vanished. Too quick and silent for someone in his winded condition.

A pain crashed against the back of Roman’s head, and the realization of his hubris hit almost as hard as the fist.

The collapse had been a feint to catch Roman off guard, and he’d fallen for it too. He’d walked right into Ezra’s trap, left himself exposed because of his own fucking ego.

Roman’s eyes went wide, caught in the chokehold and unable to break loose. Everything he did to knock himself into Ezra, to pivot the weight, to shift their stance, didn’t work. This didn’t happen to Roman. He didn’t move this carelessly. And if he did,if he found himself unable to breathe with an arm squeezing tight across his throat, he knew how to escape.

Every correct step failed him. It was as if Ezra predicted Roman’s escape attempts, contorting his body to lean into Roman’s failed efforts to break loose. Roman bucked against the pressure, against the growing weight of Ezra’s body, as his footing finally gave way.

Roman landed face-first on the ground, and the rush of blood startled him awake as the tightening noose around his throat carried shadows across his vision.

Roman fought harder, taking what shreds of conserved strength remained, and worked to flip out of Ezra’s grasp. A standing break would be easier. The ground worked against him, and Ezra seemed to team up with gravity to pin Roman in place. Instinct told Roman to flail, to scream, to panic as everything went red.

Red from fury. Red from blood. Red from fear-soaked shame.

It hurt, it nearly broke him, but Roman finally gained the tiniest bit of leverage and sucked in a desperate breath. He took a second breath to beat back the gnawing shadows that pulled him into the void of slumber. If he passed out, it was over. Roman had to properly break free.

Ezra slipped his thighs around Roman’s waist during the scuffle, during the near escape on Roman’s part. Once he had a solid grip, Ezra spun around, slammed on his own back so Roman was stuck on top, his stomach stretched tight as Ezra’s legs held Roman’s bottom half in place, and Ezra’s arm squeezed tighter around Roman’s throat. Ezra pulled so hard, Roman believed his head might pop off like a fucking doll.

Using his elbows, Roman tried to knock Ezra in the ribs, then his fists to punch Ezra in the face, but to no avail. Ezra used his legs to control the sway of their motions, both men looking like aturtle on its back. Roman’s elbows beat into the concrete ground more than with their target, and his fists never landed enough force on Ezra’s face to break his hold.

With his free hand, Ezra punched Roman in the ribcage. His strikes hit hard, the target completely unobstructed. The first punch radiated with pain, spreading across Roman’s entire body. A desperate and exhausted body. The second punch knocked out what little precious air Roman clung to. The third punch put an end to Roman’s elbowing. The fourth made Roman’s legs give out entirely. The fifth made his arms surrender.

Roman wouldn’t surrender, though. He shouted, feral and furious. He was a beast. He was the champion. He didn’t surrender, he didn’t submit, he didn’t fucking lose.

The sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth punches knocked the voice out of Roman.

Darkness came for him, but Roman pleaded and begged and fought against it. Even if his body betrayed him, even if the universe turned against him, Roman tried to move. He balled a fist. One fist. One fist, as if it’d do anything against the arm still strangling him, as if it’d do anything against the legs squeezing him tight, as if it’d do anything against the other fist still punching him again and again.

He’d lost track of the hits. The world turned hazy. The roar of the crowd became faint. Their cheers grew louder the weaker Roman became. He knew they cheered for his defeat. He knew they celebrated the champion’s reign coming to an end. He knew they’d come for him now that he’d fallen. They’d come for everything he secured at Marlow Penitentiary.

As darkness squeezed the last bit of life out of him, he plummeted from the heavens and crashed into the earth. Roman dreamed of monsters chasing him from every direction. Theycackled at his demise. They clawed at his flesh. They pinned him to the hard forest ground and demanded blood.

Chapter Two

Roman dwelled on his loss as champion for almost an entire week, hiding in his cell and sulking. The luxury of his cell came with the benefit of a real room, real walls, and a real door to close—even if the guards held the key for light’s out. It still offered Roman privacy, unlike most of the barred cells on their block. Part of him wanted to attend the upcoming tournament and see what Ezra did as the new reigning champion; another part of him was relieved when the guard he asked said Roman lacked a proper invitation. It seemed it didn’t take much to push Roman out of everyone’s graces. Everyone except his cellmate, of course.

Levi Pierce strode into the room with an uncharacteristically deep frown. He’d given Roman time to mourn his loss as champion, staying silent during Roman’s quiet days of sulking, but the frustration that ate away at Levi’s cheery disposition had become quite palpable. Levi rolled up the sleeves of his standard dark blue uniform, like it somehow offered a bit of breathing room to the stiff, cheap materials.

“Fuck being champion,” Levi said with a flippant attitude. “You never needed it. You’ve always been a bad bitch. You don’t need some basic bitch title to know that.”

Levi did a hair flip. It was also out of character for him but certainly helped convey his sassy mood. Although, it nearly knocked his glasses off when he whipped his head back.

“Seriously.” Levi brushed a hand through his shoulder-length, shaggy, chestnut brown hair. “Since the day you strutted in here all top dog and such, people have known not to mess with you or underestimate you. Don’t let this get you down, man.”

Roman chuckled, rolling his eyes in the process.

“What? It’s true.” Levi plopped onto the bunk beside Roman. “Why do you think I’m all buddy-buddy with you? From day one, I knew you’d be running this place.”

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