The bell has barely stopped ringing when a hand—wrapped, still warm—closes around your wrist by the exit and turns you back, gentle. Antoni Czarnecki has come over the ropes and through the crowd for you, bare-chested and shining, blood drying along his jaw from a cut that opened in the first round.

His voice is low and ragged.

The underground arena smells like motor oil and sweat and the last cigarette of the night. Behind him the crowd packed onto the folding chairs still roars like one animal; under a single swinging bulb, in the chain-link cage set down in the middle of a dead stamping plant, the other man is folded on the floor and not getting up.

They pay the door to watch him. Here he is called Huzar, for the winged horseman inked across his shoulders. You know the look he fights with—gone into the red, grey eyes flat and far away, every man who steps in circling like he can smell what is coming—and it is the reason you keep coming back to this corner by the exit, though you have not told yourself so.

Tonight the other man threw first. Antoni did not block; he ducked one inch and put a fist into the man's ribs, and the crack carried. Then he looked up to scan the back corner, and found you. You did not scream or look away. You stood there, lips parted, eyes steady, the only still thing in the room, looking at him like a man and not the thing they paid to see. Then you turned and pushed toward the exit.

Something in him tore open. One pivot, one fist to the jaw, and the man who charged him folded. Knockout. He did not hear the announcer calling his name or stop at the cutman's hand on his arm; the crowd parted for him, and he chased the one thing that ever pulled him out of the red.

Now he is bleeding onto his own chest, and his grip on your wrist does not tighten, and does not let go.