Ring! The bell sounded, marking the start to this much-dreaded match. The radiant, white-hot arena lights beat down, unforgivingly, on my exposed shoulders as I watched my best friend swing his hips, with such grace that would break a ballerina’s heart, over the harsh metal bars that would cage him and his opponent.

The M.C. tapped both their hands against each other, wishing them luck once again. Thunder smiled at me, then when the second bell sounded, he immediately started to circle, with his guard up, the tips of his bare knuckles touching his sharp cheekbones, just the way I taught him to. Still, I was worried.

We were in the most sought after fighting arena in Seoul: The Caged Box. If you were anybody who was anybody, you would be fighting here on Friday nights. Bare knuckles, no padding, no ref, and, no lives were spared. If you died, you died. No files were made, no questions asked. You just...disappeared. And sadly, this was where I was, watching my best friend, Park Sang Hyun, better known by his stage name, Thunder, fighting for 10 grand against the undefeated champion, Lee Chang Sun, better know as Joon.

But Thunder being defeated was the least of my worries. I was afraid he would lose control again. As his coach, and best friend, I’ve seen him at his best, and, more importantly, I’ve seen him as his worst.

Joon threw the first punch. It connected with Thunder’s jaw at an alarming speed. But it was like watching an action movie put in slow motion, my mind had seemed to slow down time. I grimaced as I watched Thunder’s head snap to the side on impact, but smiled encouragingly, when he recovered quickly. But deep inside I knew it was only a matter of time before he lost control yet again. I could just only hope that the match was over before that happened.

The pair continued the circling that they had begun a few minutes ago, no doubt planning their next moves. They looked one another in the eyes.

Then, Thunder lunged and threw out a fast round kick towards Joon’s ribs. I knew Joon wouldn’t get out of the way in time. I was right. The kick connected with a loud, solid thud, and Joon staggered sideways, guard still up, trying to right his balance, but Thunder didn’t give him time.

Thud! Thud! Thud! All of Thunder’s punches landed and Joon was on the ground, holding his stomach in agony. Something was wrong, Thunder never hit that hard so early in the match. He was more of the crowd-pleasing type of fighter. He always gave them a good show. I leapt up from the sideline bench that I was sitting on, and sprinted faster then Jesse Owen, towards the ring in the middle of the room. Grabbing the bars that secured him away from me, I hoisted my body up so that I was on the raised platform that set the cage above the ground by a few feet.

Once I was up, I looked into his eyes. They were dark as midnight. He had lost it.

“Cheondung-ah!” I screamed, speaking in Korean. Cheondung was the Korean word for Thunder. As you may have guessed, Korean was our native and first language, but we could also speak English. This was from a three-year trip he and I took as language interns to America for school.

“Cheondung-ah!” I screamed again, hoping to get his focus away from Joon. But I had waited two seconds too long, Thunder had lost all sense of his surroundings, he only had eyes for his prey, Joon.

I watched in silent horror as Joon stood up, only to get hit again by Thunder’s punches.

He threw 3 more, and Joon’s body fell forward and slumped back to the ground. His right eye was swollen shut, his lower lip had split right down the middle, and his whole body was battered, covered with murky purple bruises with yellowish rings around them.

I looked down at him, beat and broken. It didn’t need to be him. He didn’t need to die.

I’m sorry, Lee Chang Sun. I wish I could have saved you from Thunder, I thought, closing my eyes. I didn’t want to even watch anymore. Because of the rules, even I, Thunder’s coach, could not interfere with the match. Shouting was fine, but jumping into the arena would have been a crime punishable by death.

The crowd behind us started roaring with half approval and disapproval, ripping my attention away from my thoughts, when Thunder got down on one knee next to Joon’s still body and tugged at his shoulders, so that he was resting in the crook of Thunder’s left elbow. I knew what he was going to do, and I numbly let go of the bars, and stepped down, my back to the cage. I didn’t want to see it, but I heard the crowd gasp and I knew he had raised his right elbow. I forced myself to turn around. I was just in time to see Joon’s eyes open one last time. They filled with tears, as he understood what was soon to happen.

I searched for his eyes. I wanted to see them before he died. To see what kind of man he was. And, like fate had intended it, he caught my eyes. He must have known I was Thunder’s coach, because he mouthed, “I understand.”

My throat suddenly grew tight, but I didn’t respond to him. I’ve seen this too many times to really feel anything, but if I knew one thing about Joon, it was, that he always watched videos of his opponents before his match. He must have seen how Thunder ends all of his matches. I forced myself to nod at Joon as he smiled, empathetically, and closed his eyes, accepting his severe fate. This gesture made it even harder for me to accept this skewed reality.

Just then, Thunder brought his elbow down on Joon’s temple with a sickening crunch. Joon’s body tensed for a second, then relaxed in Thunder’s arms, while thick, and generous amounts of crimson blood flowed out of the wound steadily, down his killer’s arms.

I couldn’t think of anything else to do besides sigh. I’ve seen it so many times, but never quite like this. Certainly, none of Thunder’s previous opponents could have ever done something so honorable at the face of death. Lee Chang Sun was definitely something. I thought back to all of Thunder’s previous matches. Jackson, Chase Flint, James Lowington, Yang Seungho, Marcus Lee Jason, Yong Junhyung...the list goes on. All of them fought until the end, not just giving in and accepting it like Joon had.

The loud creak of the metal gate opening shocked me back into the world. The match had ended, and Thunder was walking down the steps. I looked up at his face. It was distorted with remorse, confusion, and pain. But what shocked me the most were his eyes. They were back to his normal warm, auburn coffee, but they were distant and dim. Like he was upset about something, but glad about another.

I took a step towards him, but he didn’t even notice me. His body walked as if it were hollow, like a marionette, being controlled by someone else.

He stiffly walked back to the benching area, and sat down, still not taking notice of me, and certainly not the white slips of paper that his fans were shoving in his face, trying to get him to sign.

From what I know about this state he falls into, he’s still awake and seeing everything he’s doing. He just doesn’t have the power to stop anything that is happening. He must have seen that small gesture between Joon and I.

Knowing there isn’t much I can do at this point, I grab my gray, Everlast sweatshirt and slip it over my black tank. Then, shoving my clammy hands into the deep pockets, I jog over to the announcer’s booth to collect the money Thunder won. Mir sees me and waves.

“Hey Chaelin. That was a fast match,” he greets and notes, as he hands me the 10 grand in cash, “Cheondung-ah tis’ usually sucha crowd pleaser. Yer know what happened out ther?”

“Not entirely,” I respond, shoving the cash into my pocket, “I guess he just wanted it to be over quickly.”

“I s’ppose fighting in the Caged Box takes it toll eventually,” he sighs, looking towards the fighting ring, “seeing people die everyday seems to be the norm ‘round here.”

“Yeah, I wish that wasn’t the truth,” I sigh back, trying to put on a simple smile for the old man. Surprisingly, it came easily, as if I was just slipping on a mask. I was doing this far too often.   

“Yer and me both, Chaelin. Yer and me both,” he says, looking defeated. Then he became quiet. I take it as my signal to leave.

By the time I weave in and out of the descending crowd, the group of fans that were around Thunder have already left, and he sits there alone. Bracing myself, I walk over to him.

“Hey,” I start.

He looks up at me, with the same blank eyes. “Hey,” he replied. His deep voice coming out in rough, low bass tones as if he had just woken up.

“Give me your arm,” I order, grabbing a pack of wet wipes from my gearbag and sitting down beside him.

He obeys and pushes his left arm towards me and I start wiping the still warm, blood off. This is something we do after every match, even though he just goes home and takes a shower anyways.

“You saw that right?” he asked, after a while.

“Did I see what?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

“Did you see what Joon did?”

“You mean the eye thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, Cheondung. I did.”

“I feel so bad.”

“I know you do.” I say. What else was there? He and I both knew there was nothing he could really do about it, but we talked because we could.

“He was…different,” Thunder says, more to himself rather then me.

“Yeah. I got that vibe too.”

He doesn’t say anything back, so I don’t either.

“CL?” he asks, using the nickname he had fashioned for me since the day I met him, “what is the point of all this fighting?”

“I don’t know. We just ended up here,” I say, after a long time. This much was true, we did ‘just end up here.’ He and I were both boxers. We both enjoyed and were good at what we did. We both fought at arenas and won titles and money, but it wasn’t until 2 years ago that I noticed Thunder’s lust starting to become more and more amplified.

When we were kids, this thing happened to him when he got into fights or was sparring. He would just all the sudden lose it and start hitting harder against the other person. That turned into beating, then intentionally hurting. It could not even be called harassment, it was well beyond that.

It was just recently that he had started actually killing the people he fought. The only reason why he continued with fighting, was to earn money for school. It was a secure way too. He was good at what he did, and no one else really cared about what happened to the other guy, only who the victor was. Probably, only Thunder, the victim’s family, and I even cared. Sure, call it heartless, but it was true. Thunder was a hard working person, but no one wanted to hire him, because of his background. The people he fought had trainers and managers with a good amount of money bet on them. When the opposite person wins, all that money goes to waste, naturally, you’d be mad if you lost. Thunder and I still had the scars to prove that street fighting with no strings attached was dangerous business. But, he wasn’t about to give it up, it was a promise he made to his mom before she died, he had promised her on her deathbed, that if he didn’t do anything with his life, he would finish school. If boxing was the only thing the paid for school, he would gladly take it.

I may be his coach, but I also fought on the days he didn’t. He and I earned money to pay for school for the both of us.

“CL?” he says again, pulling me back into the present time.

“Yes?” I reply, letting go of his arm and throwing the red tissue away in a nearby garbage can.

“This thing?” he starts.

“Yes?” I prompt.

“This thing that happens to me…”

“Yes?”

“Whenever it happens, I hear voices. They are shrill and piercing. Truthfully, I hear them at the beginning of every match now. Telling me to, well, you know…” he says, pausing a bit, then starts again. His voice shaking, “they’re like demons. And I try and drown them out, but the sad part is…they know how to swim. I just want to be free, CL. Is that too much to ask?”

“No. No it’s not,” I say, not looking at him.

“Maybe I’m just going crazy,” he says, as a way to end this conversation. He stands up, and grabs his bag, slinging it over his broad shoulders, “Well, escaping is my only hope. Come on. Let’s head home.”

“Sure,” I whisper, as I too, grab my heavy gearbag on one shoulder and follow him out the arena doors.

- + - + - + - + -

“Ready to go to sleep?” he asks, after we finish washing the remaining bits of our dinner off the plates.

I giggle. “Sure,” I say as I grab some soap suds from the edge of the metal sink and slap it on the side of his face.

“Hmm!” he cries in surprise, as he jumps back, laughing and wiping the white suds off. I laugh with him, as I turn around and grab the last plate, putting it on the drying rack. Suddenly, his hand whips into my line of vision, and snaps the dirty water into my face.

“Arghhh! Park Sang Hyun!” I shout, wiping my eyes, pretending like the soap got into my eyes, “that hurt!”

“Oh! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Sorry,” he slurs as he rushes to the cabinet to pull out a washcloth. Coming back to me, he gently pries my hands off my eyes, only to get splashed in the face with the remained of the dishwater.

“Hey! I’m going to get you!” he shouts as I take off running around in our small apartment. He catches me in his arms and twirls me around, until I’m begging him to stop.

Smiling, he sets me down, ruffling my hair. Times like this were the ones I valued the most. No losing control, no more deaths, no school work, no worries. Just like when we were kids.  

But too soon, he grabs my hand and leads me towards our bedrooms. Sighing, I flop down on my bed that lay across the room from his. He turns off the lights and goes to his, and lays down as well.

“Night CL,” he mumbles, as he rolls over on his bed.

“Night Cheondung,” I reply, pulling the covers up closer to my chin.

Sweet silence fills the room and I feel my heavy eyelids droop.

Then, Thunder is by my side, shaking my shoulder.

“What?” I whine, swatting his hands away, “let me sleep.”

“I have something to tell you though,” he replies.

“It can wait till morning.”

“No. It can’t. Listen.”

“Fine,” I grumble, sitting up, “now. What the heck do you want at 4:30 in the morning?”

“Remember when I said the match with Joon was going to be my very last match, three days ago? This is why,” he says, animatedly, pushing a couple of slips of paper in my hand and turning on the lights.

I squint the sudden brightness, but I can’t miss the bold golden letters, KoreanAir. It was 2 plane tickets to America.

“What the heck?” I ask, still not grasping it.

“Escape is my only hope from this world. Remember the man that took us as interns? He’s willing to have us back…permanently. This is our chance to leave every bitter memory in Korea,” he explains, but noticing my hesitation, he asks, “you will come with me right?”

“Of course,” I say, “but the tickets say you leave in 2 hours, and I leave in 5,”

“Oh, about that. I couldn’t get two seats in the same plane, so you and I have to travel separately for this trip. Sorry,” he mumbles.

“No. It’s fine. Was just wondering. So, are you ready to leave it all behind?” I ask.

“Yes. I am,” he answers, and smiles like a man that has had all his weight lifted off him.

- + - + - + - + -

“Your were right. Joon was your last match,” I whisper, as I put a single white rose down on his grave.

The moment he landed in L.A., there was an open shooting, and he had been shot straight though the heart. I would have died too, if I had been on the same plane as him. My flight was delayed, and when the pilot announced the reason for the delay, it had been three and a half hours after the shooting.

“You are free now, Park Sang Hyun,” I say, as I turn and walk back towards the company that I now worked at, “Those demons have drowned.”