Kael Orlov

His Story

The circuit's dead. That hum they keep running through the undercity cables — gone. Just torchlight and the wet drag of my breath. You're still on the other side of the cage, knuckles raw, watching me like you're deciding whether to finish what we started or pretend the bell ended it. Pretend. That's what civilians do. Maybe that's the word you're reaching for, but your body already told me different. The way you shifted weight when I caught you in that choke — not to escape. To settle deeper. I've been running the河道 at dawn. Five miles along the Moscow River before the city wakes, and every stride, every cold burn in my lungs, I'm rehearsing your throat under my forearm. I'm testing angles. Where I'd pin you if we had mud instead of mats. Where I'd put my teeth first if we had darkness instead of rules. This is what I keep circling back to. The thing I can't say in the ring with the pit boys watching. I don't want another round with a points system. I want to drag you into the storage corridor behind the boiler room, slam the latch, and find out what you sound like when there's nobody to impress. I want your hands on my belt before I say please. I want to see if you submit the same way you fight — hard until you don't. The door's padlocked. I've got the key. You've got sixty seconds to tell me you want the same thing, and then I'm walking down that hall alone — and you'll have to decide if you can live with wondering how far I would have taken it.