Page 81 of Endo

It’sfunny how pain becomes a familiar friend. You hate it, but it’s the one thing you can count on to show up, no questions asked. Right now, it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

The stench of sweat, stale beer, and blood fills the air, thick enough to choke on. It’s a cocktail of violence and desperation, the kind of atmosphere that clings to your skin and doesn’t wash off. The Iron Pit hasn’t changed. Same grimy basement, same crowd yelling for blood, same stench of lost bets and broken dreams. The cage in the center is like an altar to chaos, and the people gathered around it? Worshippers.

I haven’t been here in months. Not since the crash. Not sinceher. But now? Now, her words are the only thing I can hear.

“It was all a mistake.”

Each syllable cuts deeper than any punch I’ve ever taken. The ache in my chest twists, sharper than the pain in my leg when I shift my weight. Rehab’s been doing its job, but the scars left by her rejection? There’s no fixing those.

I push my way through the crowd, their shouts and laughter grating against the raw edges of my nerves. People recognize me, clapping me on the back, placing bets in loud, drunken voices.

“Varkov’s back!” someone yells.

“Five hundred says he drops the guy in under three minutes!” another chimes in.

The noise is deafening, but it’s better than the silence waiting for me when I leave.

I shove past Mason, who’s grinning like I just walked on water. He’s already holding out a bottle of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“Figured you’d need this,” he says, thrusting it into my hand.

I take a swig, the burn sliding down my throat like an old friend. “How thoughtful,” I say dryly, shoving the bottle back at him. “What’s next? A welcome-back banner?”

He laughs, slapping me on the shoulder. “Nah, but the crowd’s missed you, man. You’ve got ‘em all worked up. They’re betting big tonight.”

“Great,” I mutter, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint my adoring fans.”

The announcer’s voice booms over the chaos, calling my name. Mason nudges me toward the cage. “Go give ‘em a show.”

I step into the ring, the roar of the crowd swallowing me whole. The guy across from me looks like he’s been waiting for this moment his entire life. Wiry build, scarred knuckles, eyes that gleam with a dangerous hunger.

Good. I need this.

The bell rings, and he’s on me in a heartbeat, fists flying like he’s got something to prove. I duck his first swing, the movement sending a sharp jolt through my leg. Rehab might have helped, but some days it feels like I’m being held together by duct tape and bad decisions.

He swings again, and this time, I counter with a jab to his ribs. The satisfying crack of impact reverberates through me, but it’s not enough. Nothing ever is.

The crowd erupts, their cheers and jeers blending into a chaotic symphony that drowns out the storm in my head. I duck, weave, and land a hook to his jaw. He stumbles, but the bastard doesn’t go down.

“Come on,” I growl, the words dark and sharp.

He smirks, coming at me again. This time, I sidestep, driving my elbow into his ribs. He grunts, staggering, and I follow up with an uppercut that sends him crashing into the chain-link wall.

But he’s not done. He pushes off the fence, slower now but still dangerous. His fist connects with my stomach, knocking the air from my lungs. I double over, gasping, but I don’t falter. I can’t.

“Not bad,” I mutter, straightening.

The guy doesn’t respond. Doesn’t have to. His next swing is wild, desperate, and I see my opening. One sharp hook to his temple, and he drops like a sack of bricks.

The crowd loses their minds, the noise hitting me like a tidal wave. Mason is at the edge of the cage, grinning like he just won the lottery.

“Still got it, man,” he says, clapping me on the back as I climb out. “That was brutal.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, grabbing a towel and wiping the blood from my face. The adrenaline’s already fading, leaving behind that same gnawing ache that brought me here.

I grab the whiskey bottle Mason’s still holding, taking a long pull before pushing past him “Cheers,” I say bitterly, the word like acid on my tongue.

The chaos of the room presses in on me as I weave through the crowd, ignoring the offers for drinks, the pats on the back, the congratulations. None of it means anything. Not tonight.

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