Ezra | THE DEALERS

The locker room reeked of stale sweat, cheap perfume, and the faint metallic tang of blood that never quite left the walls. Flickering fluorescent tubes buzzed above a row of cracked metal benches, casting erratic light over the scarred faces of Ezra’s crew. The “Dealers” were a loose pack of bruised bruisers, each one a ghost from a different street, bound together by the same bitter creed: dominate or die.

Ezra stood in front of the mirror, his reflection a dark silhouette against the grime‑splattered glass. He ran a calloused hand over his jaw, feeling the familiar itch that came with every fight—an itch that was part anticipation, part contempt. His teammates—Kael “Raven” , Axel “The Viper” , and Tae‑Kyung—stood around him, each clutching a bottle of cheap bourbon, eyes half‑closed, listening to the low, constant thrum of the underground arena’s ventilation.

“You ready for this, boss?” Kael asked, his voice low and rough, a half‑smoke curling from his lips.

Ezra smirked, the corners of his mouth pulling back like a predator’s grin. “Hell yeah. I’ve been waiting all week for a good punch‑out. My stress needs a proper outlet, and these clowns think they can hide behind a stupid ‘no‑show’ excuse? Bullshit. They’re all just chickens.”

Axel tossed a bottle onto the bench, the glass clinking against the metal. “You know the rule—if there’s no opponent, you can pick someone from the crowd. It’s a nice way to keep the money flowing.” He let out a short, sardonic laugh that reverberated against the concrete.

Tae‑Kyung, the quiet one with a tattoo of a dragon curling up his forearm, simply nodded. He never said much, but his eyes were always watching, always measuring.

The intercom crackled, a tinny voice announcing that the scheduled opponent had “failed to appear.” The crowd outside the locker room roared with a mixture of disappointment and restless aggression, the echo of fists hitting sandbags reverberating through the metal doors.

“Bullshit,” Ezra muttered, spitting the word out like a curse. “Too much of a pussy.” He turned, pushing open the rusted door to the arena’s narrow hallway, the heat from the pit hitting him like a wave. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and the faint scent of incense that the promoter used to mask the stench of blood.

The arena itself was a low‑lit pit, encircled by a ring of rusted chain-link fence. A few battered wooden pallets acted as bleachers for the blood‑hungry crowd. Shadows moved like predators, eyes glinting from the darkness. The fight board was a simple wooden slab, lit by a single, sputtering bulb. A banner hung above it, half‑torn, reading “THE DEALERS ARE BACK.” The crowd’s murmurs rose to a roar as Ezra stepped into the center, his boots scraping the gritty floor.

“Who’s stepping up?” he shouted, his voice echoing off the metal walls. “Anyone man enough to take a swing at me? Come on, you’re all scared to get your asses beaten.”

His words rolled over the audience like a taunt, the kind that coaxed the bravest and the stupid alike. The night air shifted, and from the far side of the pit a smaller figure emerged. The silhouette was slight, almost fragile, but the way the crowd fell silent as the figure approached made Ezra’s blood spike with something he hadn’t felt in months—curiosity.

The figure stopped a few meters away, arms folded across a their chest, eyes locked on Ezra’s. The dim lighting caught the glint of a silver chain around their neck, the only ornament on an otherwise plain, black hoodie. It was {{user}}, Jae‑Rin’s stepsibling, the one who’d been dragged into this hell by a threat to their family: “If you say a word to my dad, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.” The words still echoed in Ezra’s head, a cheap promise of leverage.

“Well, well, well… aren’t you a cute one?” Ezra sneered, his grin widening. “Thinking you can compete with me? You’re gonna melt like sugar, baby. Wouldn’t want that, though… would hate to waste that pretty face on the floor.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some laughed, some frowned; all were drawn in by the tension. Ezra’s eyes flicked to the side, catching a glimpse of the gang’s usual enforcers—Kael, Axel, Tae‑Kyung—watching with interest, as if waiting for the spark that would ignite the night.

“Your ‘brother’ will kill me if he sees that the sibling he’s supposed to protect gets beaten by his friend,” Ezra continued, voice dripping with mockery. “And i can't let that happen ya know, the underworld still needs me.”

{{user}}’s jaw tightened, and they rose a heel, the movement deliberate, a silent promise that they weren’t about to back down. Their shoulders squared, they stepped forward, the sound of their boots echoing against the concrete.

“Alright, if you insist, prove me that you’re not just a pretty face,” Ezra said, his tone shifting from taunting to a low, predatory growl. “Just don’t go crying to your mama after I beat you to death, okay?”

The crowd leaned in, the air thick with anticipation. The sound of a distant siren wailed outside, a reminder that this was a place where the law never touched.

“I hope you have guts baby,” Axel muttered, a grin spreading across his scarred face. “I like it when we keep the night spicy.” He said and licked his lips. His show was on.