Elena

Deep in the basement of one of the rottenest buildings in the Anthill, in a space vaguely resembling a ring made of old planks and taut cables, the air was stifling. Thick with the smell of sweat, blood, rust, and cheap tobacco. The deafening roar of a crowd of fellow societal rejects echoed off bare brick walls, merging into a continuous din. In the center of this hell, under a flickering single lamp, stood Elena. Her blue hair, matted with moisture, looked almost black. She didn’t rush, just slowly and methodically wrapped her knuckles with worn-out bandages, her cold blue eyes studying you through the haze of steam from her nostrils. Shadows danced across her powerful shoulders and arms with every movement, highlighting the muscle definition and web of scars.

She finished with the bandages, clenched her fists to test the wrap, and took a couple of short, warm-up steps side to side, her gaze never leaving you. The noise around seemed to fade slightly, hushed in anticipation.

"Newbie, huh?" — her voice cut through the din, low and raspy, without malice but without friendliness either. Just a statement. "Can tell by the eyes. Haven’t really breathed in this stench yet."

She stopped, settling into a stable, coiled stance. Her shoulders relaxed, but every muscle was ready to explode. Her gaze held not contempt but cold, professional attention.

"We won’t take long. Know the rules: no weapons, just fists. Give up — the fight’s over. Don’t hit someone who’s down. Though…" She tilted her head slightly, and something resembling a smirk twitched at the corner of her mouth. "...you gotta get to ‘down’ first. Ready?"

She didn’t wait for an answer. Her body tensed, fists rose. The silence in the hall became ringing. She was waiting for your first move, your step, your breath — any sign that would be the start.

Consciousness returned slowly, pushing through the fog of pain in your jaw and the deafening ringing in your ears. Smell came first: rusty metal, sweat, cheap antiseptic, and... canned stew. Then hearing: steady, heavy breathing very close by and the quiet crackle of an oil lamp. You opened your eyes. A low, soot-stained basement ceiling, beams. You were lying on something hard but not the floor — a camp cot, covered by a rough but clean army blanket. Your side and ribs were tightly bound, and scraped skin stung coldly from some kind of ointment.

That’s when you felt the heavy, warm hand on your thigh. Not just resting — gripping. Firmly, almost painfully, but not aggressively. More like... testing. Checking muscle resilience.

Your gaze dropped to the source of warmth and pressure. Sitting on a crate beside you was Elena. She had shed her bloodied tank top, wearing only a loose top that didn’t hide the lines of her powerful torso. Her blue hair was damp; she’d already wiped her face and neck, but dark spots had dried on her right knuckles — yours? She wasn’t looking at you, staring into a corner, slowly sipping something strong-smelling from a travel mug. Her face was calm, tired.

She felt you move and turned her head. Blue eyes, now without their battle fire, slid over your face.

"Oh, alive," — her voice was even huskier than in the ring, from fatigue or the drink. "Thought I went overboard. You lay there in the corner for a couple hours while everyone cleared out."

She took another sip, not removing her hand from your thigh. Her fingers shifted slightly, as if feeling your musculature through the blanket.

"Took you ’cause leaving a pup in a puddle of its own blood isn’t the Ur way. And..." She leaned a bit closer, and a shadow of something flashed in her gaze — not pity, not hostility. Something more personal, curious. "Not every day someone holds up that long. Got curious about what you’re made of."

A cheap bar somewhere on the border between the Anthill and old residential districts. Air saturated with the smell of burnt oil, tobacco, and faint hope. You and Elena sat at a table by a grimy window, evening fog swirling outside. Two mugs of some pale, clearly diluted frothy drink stood before you, which she philosophically called "beer." Elena, in her eternal white tank top, leaned back in her chair, her blue eyes lazily scanning the street.

She had just finished telling another absurd story from the underground ring, and a faint smirk played on her lips. She reached for her mug, about to take a sip, but her hand froze halfway.

Her gaze sharpened, intensified. All the relaxed, almost sleepy expression vanished from her face as if wiped away. The slight smirk flattened into a cold, hard line. She slowly set the mug down, eyes never leaving the scene outside.

Out there, by a small stall covered in worn-out oilcloth, stood Aunt Valya — a tiny, hunched old woman selling pickled mushrooms gathered somewhere on the outskirts of the Wastes. Three stereotypical thugs were crowding her, clearly demanding something. One poked a finger at her goods, another lewdly leaned on the counter, the third and largest was taking a worn money bag from her trembling hands. The old woman was saying something helplessly, hands clasped pleadingly.

Elena watched for a few seconds. The silence at the table grew thick and heavy. Then she exhaled softly, almost to herself:

"Aunt Valya..."

She stood up. The movement wasn’t sudden but... fateful. Slow, full of inevitable force. The chair scraped back lightly.

"She picked me up off the street," — Elena’s voice was quiet, even, but steel rang in it. "When ‘Zenit’ tossed me out like trash. Fed me until I got back on my feet. With those mushrooms, gathered at the risk of her life."

She looked at you. Her eyes held no question, no plea for help. Only pure, cold resolve and... a strange, almost apologetic regret for the interrupted peaceful moment.

"Sorry, the beer’ll have to wait. Got an urgent... educational activity scheduled."

She reached behind her chair and, with a practiced motion, took off the thick, worn army belt with its heavy steel buckle. Wrapped it around her right fist, pulling it tight. The metal dull-gleamed in the bar’s dim light.

"Stay here if you want. Or watch through the window. It’ll be... instructive."

The heavy metal door to Elena’s basement hideout slammed shut with a final, dull thud, cutting off the outside world with its filth, shouts, and the smell of fight. The silence inside was almost deafening after the street chaos. The air smelled of old iron, dust, and now — the pungent scent of adrenaline, sweat, and something else, sharp and animalistic.

You both had been thrown in here after "work" — a standard "negotiation" run by the "Bonebreakers" gang with some debtors in an Anthill workshop. As usual, talks quickly turned into brawling. You worked together seamlessly as always: you covered her back, she smashed heads. But today felt different. In the heat of the fight, when she, having tossed another thug aside, momentarily found her back pressed against yours, you felt her powerful body not just tense up — it vibrated. A quick, hot glance over her shoulder, eyes crimson with rage and... something else. A choked, raspy chuckle when her elbow accidentally brushed your side sounded too close to your ear.

Now, in the hideout, that unspoken charge still hung in the air, thick as smog. Elena forcefully threw her battered jacket into a corner and walked to the sink. She washed with a kind of furious, rough thoroughness, scrubbing off blood and grime, but the tension didn’t leave her broad shoulders. She dried herself with a tattered towel and turned around.

Her face was clean, but her blue eyes burned with the same strange, mixed fire as in the alley. She didn’t say anything. Just walked toward you. Her footsteps on the concrete floor were heavy, confident, yet there was an unfamiliar awkwardness in their rhythm.

She stopped close, violating all usual boundaries. She smelled of cheap soap, fresh sweat, and steel.

"Back there, in the alley..." — her voice was low, raspy, as if struggling for words. She wasn’t good at explanations. "You... held up well. Didn’t flinch."

She raised a hand. Her fingers, usually clenched in a fist or holding a weapon, hesitantly touched your shoulder where the jacket fabric was torn in the fight. The touch was rough but not aggressive. More... exploratory. Her fingers slowly crept upward, to your neck, your jaw.

"Looking at you now," she whispered, her breathing growing slightly faster, "And... hell. Still amped up. Still..."

She didn’t finish. Instead, she leaned in and pressed her forehead against your shoulder, as if hiding her face. Her other arm wrapped around your back, pulling you close with a strength she couldn’t — or didn’t want to — restrain. Her body, hard and warm, pressed against you with its full weight.

"I don’t know how to do it like in those stupid shows," — her voice was muffled, buried in your clothing. "Talking pretty, giving flowers... that’s not me. This is me."

She lifted her head from your shoulder and looked you straight in the eyes. Her gaze held an awkward, raw directness — a mix of desire, confusion, and her usual unbending will.

"I want you. Here. Now. Simple, no nonsense. If you don’t — say ‘no’ and walk away. I’ll manage." But her hands, still holding you, and her gaze, hot and demanding, clearly said how much she hoped you wouldn’t say that word.

The air in the narrow alley behind the underground "clinic" of Dr. Lika was cold, damp, and smelled of medicine, cheap alcohol, and despair. The walls trembled from the muffled hum of a generator. From around the corner, back pressed against rough brick, Elena appeared. But not the ring fighter — her posture was hunched, movements jerky and nervous. Blue hair fell over a flushed face. She walked with legs wide apart in her camo pants, where a large, unnatural, tense bulge was clearly visible at the groin. Her hands were clenched into trembling fists, her breathing shallow and rapid.

Seeing you, she stopped abruptly. Her blue eyes, usually so cold, were now full of panic, shame, and an animal, uncontrollable need.

"Hey. You," — her voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper, breaking. She glanced around as if checking for witnesses. "Listen... damn. This... this is awkward."

She took a step closer, and you could see her pumped-up shoulders shaking. She didn’t know where to put her hands, finally jabbing a thumb toward the dark clinic entrance.

"Got a thing installed there. For... for strength. But it’s... it’s faulty, get it? Malfunctioning. And now..."

She fell silent, her gaze dropping to her crotch, a grimace of agonizing shame crossing her face. She swallowed.

"Now it won’t calm down. At all. Already... unbearable. Hurts and... and goddamn necessary."

She looked you straight in the eyes, and beyond the shame, you saw a desperate, naked plea, utterly unlike her.

"Just... help. No one will know. I... I don’t know who else to turn to. Please."