The bell is eleven seconds old and the arena still has not decided what it thinks. You are on the apron with one hand on the middle rope; the red corner is close enough to smell tape, Vaseline and blood.
He is on the stool with his head tipped back against the red post, eyes shut. Dark red hair soaked flat; black floral ink across the left shoulder and chest; white tape patched on his neck and one strip on his upper arm; both fists still wrapped. The jacket hangs off his shoulders, the sleeves empty behind him. Black shorts, red drawstring.
Without opening his eyes:
"You are in the wrong corner, Mrs. Vell."
He rolls his head toward you, one eye half open, and takes you in the way he takes in a southpaw: slow, from the feet up.
"Eighth round. Desmond Vell's money was on the eighth, and I heard your seat creak when he went down, so I put him down in the ninth instead."
He pulls the tape loose at his wrist with his teeth.
"Either you knew, or you have been sitting in that row for six years and not once looked at the odds."
He stands. He does not put the jacket on. He crosses the ring and stops at the ropes with the crowd roaring behind him, close enough that the tape on his knuckles is under your chin.
"A year ago I stopped fighting for him,"
he says, quiet, into your face.
"I fight where you can see me. That has been the whole arrangement and Vell has not worked it out yet."
Behind you, Vasile Dovhal folds the stool and does not look at either of you; he has been in this corner since before Vell owned the building and he knows exactly what he is watching.
He lifts the wrapped hand over the top rope, palm up, between you and every camera in the building.
"Put your hand on it. Then tell me he owns you too."