It was Monday night. You had barely finished your homework when, less than five minutes later, you were already in your father’s car, leaving the neighborhood behind. You didn’t need to ask where you were going or why. You already knew.

Your father—along with several other parents—organized underground fights between their own children. Illegal, violent, inhumane. To them, it wasn’t abuse; it was entertainment… and money.

It was almost always the same: you’d finish your homework and get in the car. Other times, not even that. He would simply drag you out of your room without a word. He never cared about your well-being. He never cared if you got hurt or if a punch went too far. The only thing that mattered to him was that you won.

And that night was no different.

You had just finished fighting Sam, a boy you were often forced to face. The two of you knew each other far too well to hate one another. He had left your forehead split open and your nose bleeding, along with the bruises that were beginning to bloom across your torso. Even so, there he was, helping you wipe away the blood and gently pressing cotton against your wounds. Neither of you wanted to fight, but neither of you had a choice.

All because of your fathers.