Chapter Text
The stairs are steep, and the railing which Shane is gripping feels old and dirty. His hands are sweating slightly as he descends underground, leaving the heat and the noise of the nightclub behind. His body relaxes when the cruelly loud music finally fades, but he’s very much aware that fighting through a wall of sweaty bodies to get here was the easiest part of the night.
The muffled sound of the base remains – low and heavy, vibrating through the thick, brick walls and the ceiling. Shane glances to the left and there is it: a circular, makeshift fight ring. It’s bigger than he expected and sunken instead of being raised on a platform.
A pit.
It looks threatening in the dim lights, but Shane has a feeling it would look equally threatening in the sun.
He's heard about this place before. Numerous times, actually, but he managed to stay away. Until now. It's currently deserted and that makes him more anxious, even though he normally hates crowds. He grips the strap of his backpack.
Saturdays are crazy – the girl, Svetlana, said and now an echo of her words rings in his head. – Come at seven. Before we open. And then we will see.
Shane is still staring at the pit and he almost collides with a mountain of muscles at the bottom of the stairs.
“Closed!” a broad, middle-aged, angry-looking man barks at him, glaring. “Fuck off!”
“Sergei!” A familiar voice calls from somewhere behind. It’s just like that echo in Shane’s head. “He’s good. He’s my prospect.” Svetlana appears and pats the bodyguard on the shoulder lightly while her gaze remains focused on Shane. She smiles, pleased. “You came.”
Shane nods. The movement is jerky. He’s nervous, so much so, that a slimy feeling of regret sneaks up on him, but it’s too late to turn back now.
“Follow me,” Svetlana says and guides him further into the dimly lit basement.
It’s a surprisingly big space. A club under a club, one might say, though this one is not for dancing.
Nor is it legal.
They round the fighting pit, walking further into the basement and Shane can finally hear other voices. Somebody’s laughter echoes – loud and unapologetic. There’s a buzz of male voices: different conversations flowing simultaneously.
“Pass me the beer, Luca!”
“Fuck off!”
“Marlow, you’re seeing this? Carter said…”
“The beer, Luca, come on!”
“Somebody from Admirals is coming tonight, right? Bet Rozy is fucking thirilled, ey?”
“...I swear she said that! I was this close to…”
“Yo, move your fucking legs, dude!”
Svetlana leads him right to that commotion, which is the only alive spot in the big, cold, open space.
It’s a sad excuse of a bar lounge: a few couches past their prime and old crates which pretend to be tables. Somebody hung a few posters on the weathered brick wall, but it’s hard to say what’s on them, because the light barely reaches there. Still, Shane’s gaze focuses on that – on a corner where the paper is peeling off.
“Ey! Sveta! What’s this, then?” One of the guys asks cheerfully. “A rookie for tonight?”
Somebody makes a disapproving sound with their tongue. It’s not very loud and yet, it seems to cut through the buzz like a knife.
“I say I want fighters,” a new voice with an unmistakable Russian accent says. “And you bring me… what? A guy I might fuck, if I get bored?” The tone is an odd mixture of accusation, amusement and authority.
Shane freezes for a moment and then he finally looks directly at someone. A muscular guy in a black tanktop is sprawled on the armchair and he seems almost bored, except for his bright eyes – the gaze is piercing. Focused. Alert.
Their eye contact stretches in silence for a moment too long. The guy raises his eyebrows expectantly, but Shane still doesn’t say anything, because there was no question. His face remains blank and he’s calculating quietly.
He has to be careful, because he needs this. Or, more specifically, he needs the money.
“I work with you, Rozanov, not for you,” Svetlana dismisses, unbothered. It’s obvious they know and like each other. The hostility between them is of that kind which is usually reserved for siblings.
“Okay.” Rozanov still hasn’t taken his eyes off Shane. He cocks his head to the side slowly, assessing. “You want to fight, then?”
Shane can feel his neck stiffen under the scrutiny, but he manages to nod anyway. “Yes.” His voice is firm.
“Mhmm.” Rozanov reaches for a pack of cigarettes, which is lying on the makeshift side table. The sound of a lighter is followed by the smell of smoke. “This place has a reputation. You know this? Best in town for making money. Many people want a chance to fight here…” He makes a pause and looks Shane up and down shamelessly. “Why should I give you time? You are good? You can take a hit?” There’s a hint of mockery in his tone now.
“I can.”
“Are you sure? Your face looks soft. Too pretty for this, hm?” Rozanov takes a drag and exhales the gray smoke lazily. “Not a single bruise.”
It’s a basement with no windows. The stink will linger.
Shane's mouth twitches in annoyance. He’s very good at controlling his own emotions, so it’s barely noticeable, but the guy is already getting on his nerves. “I am sure.”
Ilya’s mouth twitches as well, but in his case it’s an expression of amusement. Clearly, he managed to see past Shane’s mask and noticed the discomfort. And it pleases him, apparently. “Let’s see, then.” He decides and gestures at one of the guys. “Ryan.”
The biggest dude on the couch moves to get up.
Svetlana glares. “Don’t be an asshole, Ilya.”
Ilya Rozanov smiles dangerously. “No? So he is no good?” He glances at Shane again. The challenge is still there. So is the hint of mockery.
Shane is standing as still, straight and emotionless as before. Stubborn. Determined. And underneath: desperate.
Svetlana makes an annoyed sound. “Stop fucking around. Give him a real chance. I want to see it.”
Rozanov sighs dramatically and lets his head fall back to glance at the ceiling briefly. “Fine. Boring. Wyatt! You go. On the ice,” he orders. The last words turn sharper.
Shane's brows furrow in confusion and he glances at Svetlana quickly.
“He means the pit, mate!” one of the guys offers. Dark hair, dark eyes, a beer in hand. He clasps Shane on the shoulder, unnecessarily hard. “Rozy calls it the ice. Don’t you, Roz? Nobody even fucking knows why. Probably... something with Russia.” He shrugs, then grins wildly, not exactly sober.
Shane has to force himself not to take a step back. He doesn’t like to be touched by strangers.
“Carter, sit your stupid ass down,” a different guy complains and tugs his friend away. Then he focuses on Shane, offering him a hand to shake. “I’m Wyatt. I guess we’re gonna have a little fight. Cool?”
It’s a test. That much, Shane understands. He nods stiffly. “Cool.” The words sound awkward in his mouth.
* * *
One minute in, the amused, slightly mocking smile slips from Ilya's lips, replaced by an expression of serious focus.
“Where did you find him?” He murmurs, but doesn't even glance at Svetlana, unable to take his eyes off the ring right in front of them.
“In the restaurant. He's a server.”
Ilya observes every tiny, perfectly calculated movement with a mixture of hunger and respect, and it takes him a moment to register what was said.
“You are joking.”
She smiles sweetly, but it's an act. She's a scary woman, not a sweet girl. “I am not. I was having lunch and some shitfaced guy a few tables over became aggressive. Big dude, bigger asshole, you know the type. And my boy here dealt with him with ease. With style, too. You see it, right?” She points towards the ring with her chin. “You see what I see?”
Ilya nods slowly. “I do.” His surprise is quickly melting into a thick, syrupy curiosity.
Hollander moves to attack and Svetlana whistles quietly, happy and impressed. “Fuck me, that was a quick punch!”
If you know your shit, it’s very easy to spot the difference between somebody who just relies on speed and strength, and somebody who actually has technique. It’s been a while since Ilya took actual pleasure in watching somebody move around the ring. The way this rookie swings screams professional training. Ilya would know. If he was to guess, he’d say boxing. The guy forgets about his legs sometimes, avoids grappling, but definitely knows how to land a well aimed punch.
The black glove connects with Wyatt's face painfully and for a second it seems like it'll be the end of it, but Hayes recovers.
“COME ON!” Ilya yells, annoyed. This might be just a practice round, but Wyatt is on his team. He has a reputation to uphold.
There's a few of those: underground crews trying to assert dominance using the ring, because something stops them from doing it the other way. That something can be connections, money, name, fear or common sense. It doesn't really matter.
Ilya's sudden shout startles Hollander and he barely blocks a punch in time. Glove meets glove. If their hands were bare, somebody would have a broken finger.
That's exactly why Svetlana ordered them to grab the gloves from the lockers in the back.
It's not usual to use such equipment in places like these. Most people who bet money on illegal fights enjoy the blood and the injuries, so the more the better. For some, that's the whole point of not having regulations. But Fourteen Ten fight club is known for its surprisingly hard stance on safety, ever since Ilya Rozanov came from Boston to Montreal and took over the place. Or, well, claimed it.
You'd think caring about safety would drive the crowds away, but it didn't. Turns out people like it when their champions stay alive. Now, when it comes to underground fights with high-stake gambling, Fourteen Ten is the hot spot for both Montreal and Ottawa. Not just anybody can come here, though. And definitely not everybody gets a chance to get into the pit.
“Enough!” Ilya shouts three minutes in, ordering them to stop.
Nobody won, nobody lost. Shane glances at Rozanov, confused.
“Off the ice,” Ilya orders. He's seen enough. There's no point in tiring the talent out now, when they aren't collecting any bets. All this is to make money. He never forgets that.
Hayes gets out first: climbs under the padded railing, then up two steep steps to floor level, like he’s done many, many times before.
“Terrible footwork,” Ilya chirps at him as he passes. “Why the hell do I even train you?”
“You like my personality, Rozy.” Hayes shoots back. “I’m fun to be around!”
“Yeah, yeah. Fuck off.”
Hollander climbs out right after. He hesitates for a moment, then takes a few steps and stops right in front of Ilya.
For the fight, Svetlana turned on the worklight above the ring. It’s still on and now, out of the shadows and up close, Ilya notices the freckles. Fuck, that’s a treat. The guy’s sweaty, naked chest is nice to look at, but it’s not a rare view around here. The freckles, however… Now, that’s dangerous.
Hollander shifts his weight from one leg to another, uncomfortable under the silent scrutiny, but he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, waiting for the judgement to come. He tries to avoid Rozanov's eyes, but then his gaze lands on Rozanov’s lips, which is worse, and then on his naked arms, which is distracting. So he goes back to eye contact. It is, yet again, overwhelmingly intense. Ilya Rozanov doesn’t just look at you. He tries to figure you out.
“What's your background?” Rozanov asks. His voice is harsh but also curious.
“I don't have a background,” Shane informs him defensively.
Ilya makes that displeased sound with his tongue again. “Don't get cute with me,” he warns. “I asked you a question.”
Shane’s eyes narrow. “And I gave you an answer.”
“Mhmm.” Ilya doesn’t sound angry yet. For now, he seems almost entertained.
“Will you let me fight?” Shane demands. He’s quiet, but not shy. And allergic to rude people. He doesn't appreciate Rozanov’s arrogance.
“You have money?”
“Yes.”
Ilya raises his eyebrows with a smirk. “Yes? Enough? This is a nice place. Elite. I’ve got a long list of people who want to fight. The buy-in for rookies is one thousand. One and a half on a saturday” he adds and watches, hungry for a reaction.
A flash of emotion appears in Shane’s dark eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
That’s two months worth of rent for Shane and he doesn't live alone. He tightens his grip on the borrowed MMA gloves. There it is again: desperation. It remains carefully concealed, but burns somewhere deep inside his stomach. He needs the money. A lot of it. Fast.
“I have enough.” It’s all he has.
Ilya watches him carefully for a moment longer.
“Okay.”
The muffled sound of the base never left. A rhythmic thud of Shane’s heart joins it. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to convince his own brain that everything is under control.
He’s gotten this far. Now all that’s left to do is win. Easy, right?
Right.
Okay.
Let’s go.