Muscles In Trouble

NATE RIVAS

The light of dawn filters through the apartment curtains. Or rather, the light of midday. How long have I been sleeping? I know it took me forever to fall asleep, but I didn’t expect this. The dreams I’ve had… in some ways I don’t remember them, and in other ways I know at the same time that they were all connected to Marcus. How could someone I’d never seen before in my life just a few hours ago have left such a mark on me? And most unsettling of all, as I toss and turn among the white sheets of my lonely cot, is the feeling that I’ve dreamed of exactly this. Of waking up the morning after meeting him, somehow obsessed with him, but in ancient times. In an unknown land, of gods and myths.

But here I am, back in reality, in my little rental apartment—run-down and cramped, but cheap for being downtown. It’s the best I can afford right now, and really, it’s all I need. I stand up, leaving behind those circular thoughts that lead me nowhere. Or at least trying to. Maybe my workout routine will help. Squats, push-ups, sit-ups... little by little they clear the fog that has clouded my mind amid so much daydreaming, and the real memories of what happened last night come back to me, clear and true. The fight with that brainless hulk, the way you walked into the locker room as if you owned the place, the conversation—as if I’d known you my whole life. Pleasant, familiar, and fluid, but always with that hint of seduction, of playfulness. The way you jumped in to defend me against that jerk at the bar... and then the sex. The best sex I’ve had in as long as I can remember. Feeling the strength of your body against mine. Inside me. The way I rode you to squeeze every last drop of juice from your being while I came like never before between our torsos. And then your reaction.

“I love you... Adrian!” What the hell? What kind of perverted jerk are you, saying your cuckolded boyfriend's name while we're fucking? I practically shoved you off me, and then I saw the look of confusion and near-terror on your face at what you'd done. I turned around and saw that man. The famous Adrian. The owner of all this. The bastard is certainly attractive, for his age and for ours. A clean-shaven beard, a face marked by Apollonian features, muscles that show perfectly beneath his expensive clothes... if half of what I’ve heard is true, the asshole is a tough guy. But an instinctive, almost visceral hatred gripped me in those moments, without me really knowing where it came from. Until now, when I understand it clearly. Jealousy. From me??

I start punching the punching bag now as the memories keep flooding back. That asshole stopped us, and on top of that, you didn’t know how to react—you were practically paralyzed. Within seconds, the guy was yelling at both of us, saying that Marcus belonged to him. As if he were one of his fucking luxury cars. I walked up to him naked, without a shred of shame, ready to stand up to him, and then you stopped me, reacting instantly, preventing me from getting close to him. I don’t know your reasons, but I didn’t have time to try to figure them out. Adrian walked up to me and challenged me. “You're the new guy who's been winning in the cage lately, huh? You think you can just come here and take whatever you want? Marcus is mine, you hear me? Mine!! Just like this whole place! And I'm going to prove it to you... in the cage.” He punched the bag so hard it almost burst. He couldn't have offered me a better alternative.

ADRIAN DUVAL

I wake up, and as every morning, my first instinct is to check whether he is beside me. My hand lightly reaches for his muscled body. But it is his scent that gives me the greatest joy: a blend of mandarin and faint sweat. This morning, however, my hand touches only the sheet, where his body has left its imprint and his skin has left its warmth. 

Since the day I caught him with that bastard, the Red Scorpion, everything has changed. Marcus is still deeply attentive to me. He does everything he can to make up for his mistake. He also does everything he can to convince me not to face tonight the wretch who had him, who took my treasure. Anger rises in me the moment I think of that man. I could ruin his career. I have all the right connections to have him thrown out of the circuit. But I am not like that. And in any case, it would change nothing about what happened, nor about the situation now. Despite all his efforts, I can feel that Marcus is elsewhere. His kisses, our embraces, are less… I search for the word… less convincing than before. And yet, I do not want to lose him. We have been together for a year.

I leap out of bed, naked. I inspect my aging body; kept in a shape even younger men envy only through strict discipline and regular training. I go to the kitchen, glance out at the city, and make myself a coffee. Then I hear the sound of weights being dropped heavily, followed by hard breathing and deep, intense grunts. Marcus is in our gym. For days now, he has been exhausting himself, trying to forget that moment, trying to forget him.

 I enter the room. His powerful scent envelops me at once. He is there, covered in sweat, his muscles gleaming as if they had been oiled, every ridge and hollow perfectly drawn beneath his fine skin. I take a towel and tie it around my waist to hide my hard cock. He smiles at me, then drops his dumbbells onto the floor as if we had no neighbours. He pumps his biceps, checking the result in the mirror. I move closer to him. I breathe him in, as if I wanted to preserve his scent forever. I know only one thing: tonight, I will do everything I can not to lose him, and to drive this Nathan, a.k.a. the Red Scorpion — what a ridiculous, outdated name — out of our lives.

MARCUS MERETRUS

 Sweat runs into my eyes, into my mouth. My biceps are burning, and the pain is almost unbearable, every movement a tear in the muscle. When I was a young gladiator, each of my mistakes or acts of defiance was punished with a certain number of lashes. Pain was restorative, and it became a necessary companion to me. But in this world, there is no ludus, no physical punishment. So I punish myself with exercises that become more and more savage, with extreme weights, with repetitions far beyond my limits. Suddenly, he is there. In front of me, with his beautiful face, his perfect body. I smile at him. I do not want to lose him. But my attraction to Nathan — not because he is Nathan, but because I find in him everything that made Nate who he was — is still there. A distant past, and yet, when I think of that Greek wrestler who became the love of my life, everything comes back. I know Adrian could never understand that ancient attachment, tied to a world long since vanished. I owe him everything. He saved me after the god Mars tore me from death during the eruption of Vesuvius and cast me into this future world. I throw my dumbbells to the floor and flex my biceps in front of the mirror. I feel him behind me. I saw his hard sex, which he has hidden beneath a towel. My heart tightens. Because I betrayed him, of course, but above all because of the danger he is going to face tonight by fighting Nathan. I tried to talk him out of it. I promised him I would never see Nathan again. I suggested we leave for the Virgin Islands, where he owns a house. But his honor, his pride — his own words — demand it. I know the wound is deep. Later, I will go and find Nathan to ask him to give up. Or to fight me instead. I place a kiss on Adrian’s cheek. I love his morning scent. It is less sophisticated then, less made up of perfume and different creams. Usually, I would have thrown him onto that weight bench and taken him until release. But today, my heart is not in it.

He makes every effort to hide his disappointment, and I make every effort to hide the shame of having betrayed both of you, each in a different way. I know only one thing. The fight will not happen. I will not let Adrian be humiliated. I will leave right away and speak to Nathan

NATE RIVAS

Damn spring. The midday sun is already beating down hard, even in early June. Although the sun has always given me strength—I’ve always felt like it somehow rejuvenates my body—today it’s just sweat, sweat, and more sweat as I run through the most secluded paths of Central Park. Dressed only in sneakers and tiny shorts—the best outfit for maximum freedom of movement—I notice how I’m leaving a few jaws dropped and how men and women are craning their necks to look at me. I can’t say I don’t enjoy the envy and desire a little, but today I’m not really in the mood for it. Sweat trickles down my tanned skin, tracing the contours of each of my muscles, swollen and defined as if oil had been smeared all over my body. My pecs bounce up and down to the rhythm of my breaths. I run as if I want to escape my thoughts. As if the memory of Marcus’s sex piercing me and making me feel the way it did could be left in the past for a few moments. I almost gasp between breaths when images of our intense encounter flood my mind again. Of the strength of your arms and your hands. Of our chests rubbing against each other, pressing our thick pecs into one another’s. My bulge starts to grow again. I shake my head, trying to focus on the run. And then the past catches up with me again.

 I can see you running too, coming out of the next intersection. It’s clearly no coincidence, but I don’t mind—quite the opposite. Being able to enjoy the sight of your sculpted body in the same outfit—or rather, lack thereof—as mine is well worth it, and it leaves nothing else on my mind. “Marcus... what a strange way to run into each other,” I gasp as our paces sync up and we run side by side. Not waiting for each other. Just two athletes of equal ability competing once again.

MARCUS MERETRUS

The heat in New York is unbearable. The air feels suffocating, even on this spring morning. I am running almost naked. My colorful shorts look more like a gladiator’s loincloth than decent sportswear. My body shines with sweat. Every muscle stands out. My pecs rise and fall with every breath. My heavy cock slaps against my thigh and the fabric of my shorts. I try not to think about you. I try to forget those moments of intense pleasure. I know you run in the morning. I also ignore all the eyes turning toward me, the kind of attention that would normally satisfy my natural exhibitionism. But I am here for Adrian. Yes. For Adrian. In my head, I repeat the name of the man I love. Adrian. Sweat runs down my pecs, slips into the cleft of my ass, and soaks the fabric. My scent spreads around me. Even outdoors, it remains strong. I try to push away the image that has just appeared in my mind: Nate and me, running naked through the Greek countryside beneath a blazing sun. Then another image replaces it.

 You appear just as I reach the path. You do not look surprised, as if you knew I would come, as if you knew I would not be able to stay away from you. You pretend to be surprised. My cock grows even harder when I see that muscular body, made even more desirable by the sweat covering it. I match my pace to yours. For a while, only our breathing breaks the silence. Then suddenly, in a voice I try to make firm, I say: “Nathan, don’t fight Adrian. I couldn’t bear it. And above all, I couldn’t bear having to fight you to avenge him if he loses.”

NATE RIVAS

We run together as if nothing else exists in the park. For a few minutes, I don’t even hear the incessant chirping of the birds or the barking of the dogs around us. Just your breathing, and the rhythmic sound of your heavy footsteps echoing on the asphalt. My cock keeps bouncing against my hip, making the run uncomfortable. Seeing you like this... all your muscles on display, in their full glory as if you were a fucking bodybuilder, but with muscles that carry real strength. In fact, your shorts are just as tiny as mine and really look like a bodybuilding thong as your massive thighs move up and down, sliding them against your waist. I’m almost tempted to slow down and watch you from behind for a few seconds. But of course, my competitive spirit would never let me.

Then you speak, and my thoughts give way to reality. You didn’t come here for me. Or at least, not just for me. You want to protect that rich bastard. “And above all, I couldn’t bear having to fight you to avenge him if he loses.” And that last part… are you threatening me?? I grab your bicep tightly. Our skin touching again for the first time since that day. I spin you around violently, furious, letting myself go. We stop in a secluded spot, next to a thick-trunked elm tree. Both of us panting from the run, I look into your eyes again, just inches away, as our chests rise and fall heavily. For a moment, the silence heightens the tension. “No one tells me what to do, Marcus. And certainly not some stranger who thinks he has the right to demand anything from me just because we fucked one night.” 

The word “stranger,” for some reason, causes a twinge of something in my chest as I say it. I ignore it. "I’m going to take up the challenge your little husband has thrown down and tear him apart in the cage. And then, if that’s what you want, I’ll take you on, Marcus. You don’t scare me.” I move closer, taking a step forward until our chests brush against each other. Electricity courses through our bodies, jumping from one to the other, saturating us with the heat radiating from our opponent’s body as if we were hugging each other.

MARCUS MERETRUS

We run side by side, and it takes me a moment to find the courage to say the words. At once, I feel the tension shatter the rhythm of our morning run. Your hand seizes me, your mouth close to my face as you threaten me. Our bodies stand only a few millimetres apart, vibrating with animal intensity, like two young wolves trying to prove their worth. And your words burn me like so many lashes. You refuse to give up. No one tells you what to do. The thought of facing me does not frighten you. I recognize Nate again—his pride, his fiery spirit, his courage—but with something wilder and more brutal. I tear your hand away from my bicep. I see the darkness in your eyes, almost the gaze of a madman. I understand that there is no point trying to reason with you.

Our bodies radiate heat, and our scents mingle. I am overcome by a desperate desire for you, to pin you against that elm tree and take you. I want to dominate you, to hurt you the way you are hurting me now with your cold, merciless words. I step back, and my short answer leave my mouth as though I were standing in one of those Greek tragedies, in which the hero is merely a plaything of the gods, with no possible escape from his fate. “So be it, then.” I turn away and quickly disappear down a path leading toward the Reservoir. I intend to run around it several times, to exhaust myself and calm the blind fury toward you, Nathan, that has taken possession of me.

ADRIAN DUVAL

I undress slowly beneath the watchful eye of the locker-room attendant. He looks uncomfortable; I can tell that seeing me in a place like this makes him nervous. He cannot stop apologizing or offering me things—a bottle of water, a towel... Even I am surprised to find myself here, in these miserable changing rooms that usually welcome gang members, lost souls, and the lowest scum from the underworld. I look at the peeling walls and the stained, filthy linoleum floor, and tell myself that I ought to have the place renovated. And then there is the smell: traces of blood, sweat, and neglected bodies that seem to have seeped into the wood of the benches and the metal of the lockers. I have not yet looked at the showers, but I can imagine the worst. I will ask Marcus to take care of renovating this place.

 Now naked, I quickly pull on my fighting shorts. I chose the favourite colour of the man whose colours I will be wearing tonight. I am here for my lover—no, that word is wrong, far too incomplete, I am here for the love of my life, the man who stumbled into my existence by accident, the man who restored my desire to live and gave meaning to my immense fortune. A cracked mirror—another thing that must be replaced—reflects my image. The fracture cuts my body in two, and that is exactly how I feel. It is not my body that is broken. It is my heart divided between my love for Marcus and my rage to have been betrayed by the same.

 My body is still enviable. I remain in excellent shape, without an ounce of fat. My muscles are firm and well defined. My hair and beard are turning grey, but I do not look my age. Of course, I am not as muscular as I was in my youth. I am no longer as powerful as I was when I was a feared fighter in the underground circuits. But I still have more than enough left in me, and that bastard Nathan—that clown who has challenged me tonight—is going to feel it. I will make him regret seducing Marcus. Marcus is mine. Mine alone. I have never shared anything, and I have always obtained what I wanted. Tonight, will be no exception. Suddenly, I feel an intense gaze fixed upon me. I turn toward the entrance, ready to welcome the man I love. “Mar...” The name dies on my lips. It is the other man. The one who calls himself the Red Scorpion. The one Marcus calls Nate—or Nathan. The one I glare at with hatred, even as I find myself devouring the sight of him. So beautiful. So dangerously attractive.

NATE RIVAS

On the day of the fight, I spend the whole time distracted. All sorts of thoughts are racing through my mind. At certain moments, when I manage to relax a little despite the anticipation of the fight, I can’t stop thinking about the inhuman attraction I feel for Marcus. The tone of his voice, rough and gruff; his gaze, with those deep eyes that return the same attraction and desire with which I look at his body. In the contact of his rough skin against mine. But then, like a wave that sweeps away the debris on the beach and reshapes its surface, I remember his words in Central Park. “I’ll have to avenge him.” Anger takes hold then, banishing the daydreams of him. I may have a sharp mind, having graduated from college with honors, but deep down inside, what makes a human being most authentic, I am a fighter. And as such, no one is going to stop me from accepting a challenge. From facing my rivals whenever and however I want. And certainly not Marcus, least of all.

When I finally arrive at the gloomy basement where the fighters are kept at that rich guy’s place—the one who throws his crumbs so that other, better men will fight for him and for the amusement of his dapper little friends—my heart has settled into a calm resolve. I leave the bike with the guy at the entrance, shooting him a murderous look that makes it as clear as possible what will happen if anything happens to my bike. I don’t have much, but that bike is important to me.

 So I head into the damp hallways, flooded with the smell of sweat and worse, with my gym bag slung over my shoulder. Everything’s normal, until I open the locker room door… and what I find there takes me completely by surprise. The king of heaven has come down to mingle with us poor, earthly little men for this occasion. And despite my sarcasm and contempt, I can’t help but admire the man before me for a moment. Because the body he presents to me, clad only in his wrestling shorts, isn’t that of a man his age. At least not like any I’ve ever seen. Firm, defined, bulging muscles. And a determined gaze, with experience behind it... It makes me think of the man Adrian must have been in his youth, and for a second, I wonder to myself if this fight will be as easy as I thought.

 The silence thickens between us as we size up our opponent, the man with whom we will enter the cage until only one of us remains conscious. Neither of us expected to find the other here—that much is clear—but the surprise is of a different kind. As we assess each other’s physiques and faces… a certain admiration begins to grow. I break the silence. “What an honor that the great emperor has decided to join the common folk tonight. Though I don’t think the facilities are quite to your liking.” 

Little by little, I take my position next to my locker, just a couple of meters from his, and I begin unbuttoning my shirt until my chest is exposed. Aware that I’m saying this as I take off a Swiss cotton shirt. I undress without a shred of modesty, revealing every part of my body in a seemingly carefree manner, yet fully aware of the effect it has. Whether it’s desire or intimidation. “You won’t particularly like the shower, but I suppose that once the fight is over, they’ll take you to your own luxury dressing room where you can wash the blood off your body.” I turn to you, now in just my underwear, moving within a meter of you. “I don’t know what kind of connection there is between you and Marcus, but I do know how he fucked me the other night, and what he said while he was doing it. And I don’t think that’s something you can avoid.”

ADRIAN DUVAL

He undresses in front of me without the slightest shame. To be fair, his body is perfect—the body of an athlete, of a true sportsman. Nothing like Marcus, who has pushed his muscular development to the limit while remaining aesthetic and sexy. This Nathan reminds me of myself when I was young, when my body was the only way, I knew how to assert myself, the body of an ambitious young predator. To him, I am nothing more than a selfish, wealthy bourgeois. And I can feel how angry he is with me—first because I am Marcus’s lover, but now I understand that he also resents me because of my social position. Then you move closer. You smell of sweat, cheap cologne, and engine oil. Your scent is exciting, but your words are not.

You speak to me as if Marcus’s feelings were uncertain, as if the way he fucked you somehow proves it. But I know Marcus. He is still the barbarian gladiator who came from the past. I may have given him a veneer of social refinement, but from time to time, it cracks. Now it is my turn to unsettle you. I answer calmly. “You are not the first man he has fucked since we have been together. For him, it is simply a way of proving his masculinity, of proving that he is the dominant alpha. I am sorry to disappoint you, but you were only one more. A simple act of hygiene that he needs from time to time. You or someone else—it would have made no difference.” I pick up my towel, my heart heavy as i walk slowly to the cage. You have planted doubt in my mind. But I am going to prove to you that I still have the power to change things.

NATE RIVAS

 Face to face with Adrian, I can now see deeper into him, gauge his gaze and his demeanour. Even his scent—masculine yet elegant, with a hint of expensive cologne. I can sense his experience, his wisdom... He’s not just an old man. He’s so much more. And that intrigues me in some way, as if he were a guide, a mentor to athletes... I don’t know why I’m having these thoughts. This man stands between my desire and me, between my honor and me. And I’m going to get him out of the way. Your words are meant to hurt, Adrian, but the one who has a real connection with Marcus right now—and yet doubts its strength and authenticity—is you.

Before you leave the locker room, I reply in a harsh voice. "Tell yourself whatever you need to convince yourself. I don't need your opinion. Only he and I know what really happened that night. You’d better start thinking about the cage and what’s going to happen there in a few minutes. For your own good.” When you finally leave, I’m left alone with my thoughts in silence, breathing deeply as I try to calm the excitement in my groin. I seem out of control, and although I’ve always been the hedonistic type, this isn’t like me. Slowly, in a ritual repeated countless times where I try to focus and feel my body—every muscle, every heartbeat—I put on the black shorts with crimson stripes and that scorpion design, which somehow came to mind when I was looking for an emblem for my life as a fighter away from the spotlight. I put on the matching gloves, aware of how many things I do and feel almost instinctively, as if I’d always done them or somehow knew how they should be done.

And fighting is one of them. It’s what I do best. So I stand up and walk barefoot down the underground corridor, almost feeling the vibrations in the ground caused by the expectant watchers, just as I hear their shouts growing closer and closer. A huge crowd has gathered to watch the Lord Emperor fight. But all I care about is whether one person only has come.

ADRIAN DUVAL

I hear the roar of the crowd. I have heard it many times from the VIP box. Sometimes, I would slip unnoticed into the mass of spectators, wanting to feel and experience the fight among men without scruples, freed from the restraints of society. Tonight, the place is packed. They have all come to witness my execution. In the VIP box, I recognize my fiercest rivals, but also many men who claim to be my friends. Yet I can clearly see that they are here to watch my humiliation. I am greeted by hateful shouts, boos, and even cries demanding my death. I am not surprised. I am everything these people are not: rich, powerful, and blessed with a perfect body. But all those faces twisted by hatred mean nothing to me. I search the room for Marcus. He alone matters.

 I look over the places where he usually stands or sits. Nothing. He has not come. I begin to worry. Has he decided to abandon me? To give himself only to the winner? I try to drive those thoughts away. I enter the cage and realize that I have never before stepped inside the one I own. The floor is filthy, covered with stains whose origins are impossible to identify. I hear men spitting from several directions, their saliva striking the floor and the metal mesh. I am too far away to be hit, but I find myself facing something that has become a certainty as I have grown older: the unchanging barbarity of mankind. My personal doctor slips close to me. He tries to convince me to withdraw. I smile at him. “Too late, Doc. You’ll do whatever is necessary if I get badly hurt.” Then the cries change. Applause erupts. The crowd begins chanting a name. “RED SCORPION! RED SCORPION!” You appear, magnificent. You advance with a smooth, confident stride. You are the king of this jungle. One final time, I search for Marcus among the crowd. My heart tightens. What a fool I am. Or rather, what a madman. The announcer introduces the fight. The die is cast.

NATE RIVAS

As I approach the cage, the stench of concentrated humanity hits me along with the heavy air. It’s a mix of cigarettes—ranging from the cheapest to the most expensive and extravagant, which are probably being smoked in the VIP boxes—along with the sweat of dozens of excited men, a scent that makes no distinction between social classes and puts everyone on the same level. But there’s also the sound of boos and insults directed at my opponent. I knew you’re not the most beloved person around here, but I’m surprised at just how far these rats are willing to go to bite the hand that feeds them. They don’t understand the concept of patronage—clearly ungrateful vermin who would betray their own mother. But the worst are the vipers watching smugly from the boxes. I stand observing all of them from the threshold of the archway leading into the combat hall. I know the kind of venom they carry, and how they’re waiting for the opportunity tonight to pounce on your body. And inside, I squirm uncomfortably. It shouldn’t be this way.

When the crowd starts chanting my nickname now, I feel perhaps even more disgusted. These people knew nothing about me just a few weeks ago. They were practically calling for my head when I faced Avalancha and cost them a few thousand bucks with my victory. And now they shout my name with the conviction and fervour of a congregation. I walk down the aisle without looking at them, but also without hiding the contempt on my face. The men at the front brush my half-naked body with their fingers, and I push them away roughly and decisively. When I finally reach the cage, the only thing on my mind is an absence. Although I’m sure that, one way or another, he won’t miss this. After all, one way or another, I know him all too well.

I watch you from the other side of the cage when your personal doctor leaves you alone with me. There’s no referee, no one else with us when the cage closes. And I see your face and your body poised, your breathing controlled, but worried. And I know it’s not because of me or these hicks around us. We move slowly toward the center of the cage, taking short steps across its yellowish surface, speckled with reddish stains all over. Face to face, just a few inches apart, we look into each other’s eyes, both of us breathing deeply and steadily, our bare chests rising and falling almost in unison. “It doesn’t look like you have many friends in your own home, Adrian. You’re going to fall alone and abandoned.” The thunder of the crowd’s screams continues to demand your head louder and louder. And I can’t stand it; it’s not my goal here to fight for their amusement or fulfil their personal vendettas. My voice roars like thunder in a storm as I turn to address them all, aristocrats and commoners alike.

"SHUT UP, YOU BASTARDS! This man has given you a place to take refuge in your basest instincts, in the misery of your hollow, miserable lives. He has literally pulled some of you off the streets and given you the chance to be someone, to serve a purpose! And this is how you thank him? Well, know this: today I am not your executor angel. Today I’m fighting another warrior for my own reasons. You lot just make me want to vomit.” To end my speech, I spit vehemently on the ground beside us. And I glance at you out of the corner of my eye as I walk a couple of meters away. “This is the only courtesy you’ll get from me today, Adrian.”

ADRIAN DUVAL

As you approach, I have time to observe you. There is something noble about you, almost aristocratic. Your stride is fluid but assured. On your face, I can read all the contempt you feel for these bloodthirsty beasts who insult me and already rejoice at the thought of my fall. From time to time, I scan the room, searching for the only face that matters to me. But I cannot find him. You enter the cage and speak brutally. Silence falls at once. And you defend me. I see the surprised looks in the crowd, and the more aggressive ones from my VIP guests. They are not used to being spoken to that way, especially not to having what they truly are stripped bare behind their fine suits, their expensive watches, and their costly cigars. I understand better now why Marcus is attracted to you. It is not merely physical attraction. It is also your personality. That nobility of spirit, that tortured character moving through this world with his fists, while deep down remaining a tormented philosopher.

My hatred for you turns into respect. I know that I have already lost, now that I no longer see you as an enemy. Perhaps I am the one who is wrong. Perhaps I am unworthy of Marcus. I have saved him several times, but that was nothing for me, with my fortune and my connections. You, however, are ready to give your sweat, your blood, perhaps even your life for him. The shouting has started again around us. Now the insults are aimed partly at you as well. I am lost in my thoughts. I doubt the purpose of this fight. I want to let everything go. I should have welcomed you, spoken with you and Marcus. I should have been reasonable, as I generally am in business, keeping a clear head on my shoulders. But I acted out of anger at having been betrayed by the man of my life. Marcus is the last man I will ever love like this. I had a romantic vision of our story, of him at my side until the grave. And then came this insane idea of a duel. Am I truly fighting for him? Or is it pride that drives me? The illusion that I am still the champion I once was, the man who could take down his opponents with a hook to the face?

Suddenly, I feel old. Abandoned. I move toward you. I can no longer hate you. I am about to throw down my gloves, to tell you that we will settle this like gentlemen—or rather, like businessmen. Then suddenly, I hear shouts and insults. The crowd parts to let someone through. I see him. Angry, throwing elbows and punches to force his way toward us. My heart leaps. I want to scream his name. He is there now, gripping the cage, staring at me with desperation, anxiety, brutality, violence. His muscles are tense, some of them shifting beneath a T-shirt that is far too tight. 

And my anger returns. My cock half-hardens. No. I cannot abandon this barbarian gladiator. I belong to him as much as he belongs to me. I move toward you and, calmly, my gaze hard, I answer: “I want nothing from you Nathan. No Favors. Only a real, fair fight.”

NATE RIVAS

I watch your face, your pensive, sorrowful expression. Clearly, many things are tormenting you, but one thing above all else. An uncontrollable, illogical attraction. I almost empathize with you. But then I see where your eyes are fixed, and I see the embodiment of both our desires. Marcus, that damn giant barbarian who’s so damn attractive. Gripping the cage mesh as if he’s going to tear it down and stop this. But he can’t. He knows he can’t. My heart races for a moment, just as my groin throbs again just from seeing him, from feeling him close. For a moment, the crowd’s screams fade away, at least in my head. I feel like an idiot for coming here, trapped in that damn animal magnetism. A madman following another madman. Then I hear your voice again, asking for nothing more than exactly what I want. What I come here for every week like a beggar to his temple. A fair fight. Nothing more. “So be it, Adrian.”

Without another word, I cast one last sidelong glance at Marcus and take my guard. Outside, the bell rings. The echoes of hatred crying out for blood fall silent for a few moments, only to grow louder the next. Now, I focus solely on the fight, on the purest encounter between you and me. Two men fighting in the cage not for another man, but for themselves. Or at least, not just for another man. My bare feet slide across the yellowed surface of the cage, circling around us. I begin to assess your defenses, looking for an opening. Your movements make your experience obvious. But today we’re going to see how recent that expertise is. I lunge at you, running in with a front kick to your stomach, aiming to bend you over enough for a left hook to strike your cheek and claim the first blood in my Favor.

ADRIAN DUVAL

You circle around me like a predator around its prey. Your muscles gleam beneath the spotlights. Your face is focused. I wait for your attack, my arms held close to my body to protect my torso and the lower half of my face. I have forgotten my age. I have even forgotten Marcus. I rediscover the sensations of the past. I feel my muscles quivering beneath my skin like those of a stallion. The scent of our sweat begins to spread through the air. The scent of our arousal too, born from the thought of spilling blood. We are two modern gladiators. One is an old champion making his return. The other is a young champion at the height of his glory. My mind is sharper than usual.

I have seen footage of your fights. Many of your knockouts have been quick. A kick to your opponent’s stomach, then a brutal series of blows to the face, hammer strikes that leave him no chance. And what I prepared for finally happens. Your rush on me. You launch your foot forward to strike my abs, but I turn slightly. I feel your heel graze me, and the rush of air makes my T-shirt tremble. Your leg remains suspended in space for an instant. You look surprised. Hesitant. My fist shoots toward your lower belly and sinks into your abs. The other strikes your chin. Your head snaps backward, and the movement of your body, your position balanced on one leg, throws you off. You crash against the cage. The crowd erupts. I have forgotten them too. All I want now is to rush at you and finish you.

NATE RIVAS

I attack with the strength of a puma, closing in on my opponent hoping to catch him off guard as I usually do, seizing the element of surprise and not letting him regain momentum during the fight. But you’re different. You’re not one of those mindless thugs. You know exactly how I move and what you need to do to counter. Unfortunately for me, I realize this too late as my foot flies past you. And too late to dodge your fist, which sinks into my abs with a sharp crack, like a mallet striking a drum for the first time, setting the rhythm of the fight. I don’t growl; I just clench my teeth for a moment and exhale sharply. I don’t have any more time, either, since your other fist quickly flies toward my chin and strikes with almost surgical precision, sending my head and my whole body flying backward, off balance, with a low groan. My back crashes against the metallic mesh. It almost seems as if steam is rising from the contact between its cold surface and my burning skin.

The crowd erupts in cheers and shouts that have already cut through the boos. The battle begins in an instant; all they want is to see blood. It’s always been this way, and it always will be. And I plan to give it to them, but by spilling it from your body. When I see you lunge at me with the same hunger, I’m ready this time, and, backed up against the fence, I block your next punch to the face with my left while my right flies in a hook to your face, which knocks your head to the side, making you spit out some saliva. It gives me just enough time to throw a side kick to the side of your left knee and stepping back from the cage to gain a little space, I close in on you and drive my right glove into a close-range uppercut to your abs, as defined and strong as a damn bodybuilder’s. You certainly have the physique of one, and it’s a physique I intend to break right here today in front of your lover.

ADRIAN DUVAL

I let myself get carried away by the euphoria. And yet I know perfectly well that a good attack is not a sign of victory. It is concentration, observation, anticipation that leads to the other man’s fall. And this time, I anticipated nothing. I find myself reduced to the role of a punching bag. I realize that I can still take a hit, even if the pain now flooding my body has not visited me in a very long time. But I welcome it like an old friend. I grimace. I see your eyes blazing, hurling lightning at me just as you hurl your punches. Your entire body, all your muscles, are in motion. A solid bar of pain locks across my chest. My breath is cut short, and I drop to one knee.

I feel sweat flooding my T-shirt. I look at Marcus. He is so worried that he does not even realize he is bending one of the bars of the cage, gripping it with all his strength in his powerful arms. I am going to remind him who I am. I pull off my T-shirt, and my Apollo-like body appears. My carved abs, my powerful pecs. 

 I throw my damp T-shirt toward my lover. He catches it. He brings it to his face and breathes in my scent. I see his eyes light up and a smile appear on his lips. Then he drapes it around his neck. like a scarf, as if he were wearing my colours. Suddenly, I feel invincible.

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. And you, too, seem fascinated. Your gaze slides over me. Then, in an instant, I am on you. My fist drives into your solar plexus, and my other hand strikes your right temple with the force of a bull. Every muscle beneath my skin awakens. Suddenly, I feel young. Alive.

NATE RIVAS

You rip off your shirt, as if putting a temporary pause on the fight after the barrage of blows you’ve just taken. The gesture seems calculated, designed to draw the crowd’s attention during the fight, to silence those who doubted you… and perhaps to open my mouth a little. A tactic to try to win back part of the crowd. What I see is a perfectly defined physique, every muscle in its place and perfectly shaped to fulfil its function. A sculpture forged for art, sport and lust, all combined. Much more than I expected, and I already expected quite a lot from you, the lord of the arena. But that’s not what throws me off, by any means. In another of your well-calculated moves, you toss the shirt out of the cage and Marcus catches it. He snorts it like it’s fucking cocaine and wraps it around his neck like a grinning idiot. A flame of rage ignites inside me, rising from my chest, spreading through muscles, bones, and joints, threatening to consume everything. Suddenly I can picture the two of you, in your fucking penthouse, cracking up, laughing at the next guy off the streets to drag into your games of power and sex. Planning all of this. And I’m not going to be anyone’s puppet or toy.

 With a cry of rage that chills the hearts of many in the crowd, I charge at you. A blind rage, yet one that intertwines with my fighting instincts to turn me into a dangerous weapon. A right hook flies toward your face, but you block it. It doesn’t matter. The left follows almost instantly and sinks into your liver. Your growl of pain fires me up even more, like adding coal to the fire. My opposite knee rises to strike your side and continue the punishment. Your sculpted muscles are punished by my blows, until, before you can counterattack, I plant my foot on the ground and ram my chest against yours, skin meeting skin. Our torsos come into contact, exchanging heat, raising the intensity even further. Our chins rest on each other’s shoulders, both of us growling in the grip, until a whisper reaches your ears. “I’m going to kill you in front of your damn sweetheart, you fucking old man!” 

My hands wrap around you, my right hand grabbing your thigh to throw you off balance while I brace for your punches to my side, and with a roar of effort I charge at you until I slam you against the fence, forcing my shoulder into your throat to pin you against it. But not just anywhere. My charge was perfectly aimed, so that we crash right where Marcus is holding the fence.

ADRIAN DUVAL

Your shoulder crushes my throat against the cage. For a few seconds, I cannot breathe. The metal bites into my back. Behind me, I feel Marcus more than I see him. I hear him growl my name, but his voice is lost in the screams of the crowd. You brought me exactly where you wanted. In front of him. To humiliate me before his eyes. My first instinct is to push you away with both hands. But I know it is useless. You are younger, stronger, more explosive. In this position, all your power is against me. So I stop fighting you face to face. I let your weight come on me. You think I am breaking. But I am waiting. You push harder. And then my right elbow drives into your ribs. It is a short brutal and precise blow. Brutal. I feel your breath break for one second.

One second is enough. I turn my hips to the side. Then my shoulder. I am no longer flat against the cage. I am sideways now. Your shoulder slips from my throat to my collarbone. Air comes back into my lungs. I cough. But I can breathe. I am not free. But I am not trapped anymore. And now I can hit back. My right fist sinks into your ribs. Once. Then again, almost in the same place. I feel your body tighten against mine. I turn a little more and free my left arm. My fist comes up under your chin in a short uppercut. There is not enough space to make it beautiful. But there is enough space to make it hurt.

Your teeth snap together. Your head goes back. The crowd screams. Maybe Marcus screams too. I do not hear him clearly. I only see you. Your rage. Your youth. Your burning body pressed against mine. I push my forearm against your throat, not to choke you, only to create a little space between us. Just a few inches. Enough for my knee to rise hard into your stomach. This time, I growl into your ear. “You wanted to break me in front of him? Then look carefully, Nathan. I am still standing.”

NATE RIVAS

Focused as I was on pinning you against your boyfriend’s body, I took blows I shouldn’t have let happen. Your elbow lodged itself in my ribs, causing a sharp, stabbing pain that made me lose my balance, allowing you to roll to your side. You free your throat of my forearm, which is still pushing your head into the cage anyway, but the new angle allows you to punish my sides and back with your fists. I growl in pain with every hard impact, watching Marcus smile on the other side of the cage with every blow you land on me. And that does little to help you because it pisses me off immensely. Then your uppercut knocks my teeth together, and with a shove you push me back far enough to drive your knee into my abs. The air is knocked from my lungs for a few seconds in a pained groan. Your words are the final straw. You get the explosion you’ve been asking for.

“Still standing?” From the crouched position my body was in after the knee strike, I unleashed my fists in rapid succession—two, three, and four thunderous hooks to your abs, as if I were playing a drum requiem on them. The sweat beginning to cover our bodies flies off with every blow that makes your flesh reverberate. “STILL STANDING?!” Even though you counterattack my head and land a hard bottom-to-top hook on my cheek that makes me spit some blood onto the canvas, I press the attack, now sweeping your left leg with a powerful roundhouse kick to your right thigh while I throw you off balance by pushing down with my hands on your body, squeezing those marble muscles tightly. I make you slide down on your back, leaving a trail of sweat along the fence. And to accompany your descent, I grab you by the hair with my right hand, smashing your skull against the metal mesh while my left hand returns a blow just as wide as the one you just gave me—only this one is repeated twice. THUD THUD!! I follow you on my knees as you fall, landing on the ground, trapped between the cage and me. And that’s when my head is level with Marcus’s outside the fence. For a few moments, we look each other in the face, just like the other day in the alley. Me, gasping, with blows to my body and face; him, struck in places much deeper. But even though a thousand words are fighting to come out right now, I say nothing; I just wrap my left arm around the back of your neck, tuck it under my armpit, and squeeze in a guillotine chokehold.

ADRIAN DUVAL

Your arm closes around my neck. You are in front of me, on your knees, almost pressed against me, your chest against mine, my head trapped under your armpit. Your smell hits me at once. Hot sweat mixed with the smell of your burning skin. I feel my cock get hard. My back is crushed against the cage. The metal bites into my skin. I am trapped and then I understand the danger. You are trying to put me out. The pressure closes around my throat. The air disappears.

 My hands go straight to your arm. I grab your wrist, your forearm, anything I can reach. I cannot hit you properly, with my head trapped under your arm. So I do the only thing I can do, I use my legs. My knee presses hard into your stomach. My other foot searches for the floor and finally finds support. You squeeze harder. My vision starts to blur.

I hear Marcus on the other side of the cage. He is shouting my name. This time, I really hear him. No. I will not pass out in front of him. I pull on your wrist with both hands to gain one breath. Then I push with all my strength, driving my knee more into your stomach. Your body moves back a little. It is enough. Your hold changes. My head slips slightly under your arm. I push again, harder, using the cage behind my back for support, my knee still into your abs. My hands pull your arm down. Air comes back into my throat. I fall to the side and roll across the dirty floor of the cage. I cough. My throat burns. My legs shake. But I am free. Slowly, I pull myself back to my feet. My body hurts. My breath is broken. But my fists rise again in front of my face. I look at you. I spit on the floor, take my guard, and speak in a rough voice. “You almost had me, Nathan. Now try again.”

NATE RIVAS

 Struggling against the cage’s mesh, you manage to gradually gain space, positioning your body just right, moving the right joint at just the right moment, like a true master. You even use the sweat that drenches our bodies to help us glide more easily against one another. And finally, despite my efforts, your head slips between my arm and my side, and you escape, rolling across the mat. A snort of frustration escapes my lips as I watch Marcus and his stupid smug look. I get up, trying to ignore him, to face you again. “I’ll try as many times as it takes, old man, until I get it right.”

We began to advance with our guards up, panting slowly, never for a moment taking our eyes off our opponent’s every move, trying to ignore the crowd’s shouts—a crowd that, increasingly caught up in the fight, has begun to forget just how much they hate us. Or perhaps they’ve simply realized that no matter who loses, one of us will be left shattered on the canvas for their enjoyment.

We exchange a flurry of blows in the center of the cage, in a lethal dance punctuated by the rhythm of gloves striking our opponent’s body and face, and by the groans and grunts of pain and exertion from both of us. Sweat flies with every strike and block. Neither of us gives in.

 So I switch to a more aggressive attack as soon as I see the first real opening. After a couple of high jabs that you block by covering your line of sight, I go in for the kill with a side kick to your ribs, followed by a spinning kick to the face with the heel of the same foot rotating over my left. CRACK! My heel sinks into your cheek, and blood gushes out in a torrent mixed with saliva. I can see the pain on your face in that moment frozen in time, just as Marcus’s body tenses and grabs the cage as if trying to tear it down. For me, however, time speeds up immediately afterward as I lunge forward with my fist to strike your skull, taking advantage of your semi-crouched stance. The blow brings you to your knees on the canvas due to the tremendous impact on your staggering body, so I position myself behind you and reach for your right arm, stretching it out and twisting it behind your back while my other fist—my left—tries to find gaps between your gloves to rain blows down on the back of your neck, skull, and face. A furious grunt accompanies every blow.

ADRIAN DUVAL

The blows rain down on me. My face is covered in blood. You pull my arm behind my back as if you wanted to tear it off. I am surprised by so much anger, almost hatred. My God, how much you must love him. My Marcus. I take the blows, trying to protect myself with my free arm. But it is a weak protection, almost useless. I am broken. I know it. I look toward you, my love, and I see your face twisted with emotion. Your hands are clenched against the cage like the talons of a bird of prey. You are staring at Nathan with a mixture of anger, admiration, and pain. I know you so well. And I can see how much you are suffering. I will not give up. Not in front of you. I let myself fall forward, trying to break my opponent’s hold. I roll onto my side. My body is streaming with blood and sweat. It runs into my eyes, blurring my vision. I crawl toward you. 

I grip the cage and, with a superhuman effort, I pull myself up. You give me the strength to stand. I see the desperate look in your eyes, telling me to stop the fight. But that would mean losing you. I turn toward Nathan and stagger toward him. I take an attacking stance, barely able to remain on my feet. The crowd is screaming for my death. I have no reason left to live. You humiliated me in front of the man who means everything to me. And I would rather die.

NATE RIVAS

Once again, you roll out of my reach to escape, just as my fist slams one last time against the canvas with a devastating blow, similar to the one that knocked Avalancha down just a few days ago. I watch as you crawl across the cage toward your beloved, trying to get a little of that elixir that gives you the strength to get back on your feet. I stretch my neck, catching my breath for a few seconds while you finish getting up. You fought well, but you didn’t stand a chance against me. It’s not just youth versus experience. Combat has always been my most natural way of communicating with another man—even more so than words. And society has turned you into a man cut off from his inner beast, sheltered behind a cloak of silk and glamour. And here today, in the arena, those differences in status disappear.

I approach you slowly, watching you stumble as you struggle to stay completely upright with your numb, bloodied body. “You still have time to give up, Adrian.” I almost spit out the words, which sound more like an insult than the offer I’d like them to be. If you’re capable of fighting like this for someone else, it’s because you must truly love them. And I know I’ve never felt anything like that in this life. In this life… the words make me think silently, as I continue to gaze at your battered yet still impressive body.

MARCUS MERETRUS

All my muscles are tense when I see Nathan gain the upper hand. The look Adrian gives me fills me with sadness. He knows he is beaten, the way a bull in an arena knows when the moment of its death has come. And like a bull, he refuses to give up. He rises, staggering, covered in blood, probably with broken bones. But that stupid pride of his keeps him from forfeiting. And I know it is my fault. It is my presence that holds him back, just as it is my presence that drives Nathan—my Nate—mad with rage. I should never have come. My heart is still divided. But I will not let Nathan destroy my man. Nate had no limits when it came to winning. And Nathan is just like him. I move toward the cage entrance, ready to intervene if the fight continues and Nathan keeps going after Adrian. There is no honor left now. Only two men jealous of each other, refusing to lower their fists. I see them close. Nathan speaking to Adrian. I cannot hear what he tells him. But i see they are both not ready to give up.

ADRIAN DUVAL

You are standing in front of me. You speak to me, but I am not listening. I try to forget this body that attracts me sexually. Just thinking about you Nathan makes me feel as if I am betraying the man of my life. Your warm breath brushes against my swollen face. I do not know if the words reaching me are words of hatred or support. I glance toward the place where Marcus was standing. He is no longer there. My stomach tightens. A new pain joins the others, an inner pain, the pain of a heart breaking. Like someone about to die, images of my life pass before my eyes. But strangely, only the images since I met Marcus. It is as if I had not lived before him. I have nothing left to lose. I stagger as close to you as I can and throw my fist toward your sternum. You do not expect it. But I know the blow is pathetic. It would not even bend a reed. Still, I will fight to the end. To the death. Today, I am the gladiator. Today, I will be the one who reddens the floor with his blood.

NATE RIVAS

I watch you, barely staying on your feet, barely getting any support from your wavering legs, yet you rise above the pain and face me. I look into your eyes, frowning, my heavy breathing causing my chest to rise and fall slowly and sending beads of sweat trickling down it, as if they were tears for the defeated fighter. But I won’t let pity be what seals your fate in the ring. You’ll go down like a fighter. With blood. That’s the end I’ll grant you. For Marcus, for me, and for you. Marcus isn’t even here to see it anymore, but right now, I don’t care. This is between you and me, and it’s up to us to bring it to an end. Two men entered the cage challenging each other, and only one must walk out on his own two feet. When your blow hits me in the center of my torso, I barely flex my muscles to absorb it, though it draws a final, faint growl from me. “So be it.” That is your decision, and it falls to me to honour it.

Without a moment’s hesitation, my fingers find themselves grabbing your head from behind by the hair and pushing it down, while my right knee shoots up toward your face. CRACK! The blow is brutal, and I feel your nose break on impact as blood spurts out almost immediately. But I’m not done yet. The fury from all these past days—from all these past years of feeling incomplete—surges up. I grab you under the armpits with both arms, and with a scream of rage, I hurl you spinning through the air in a belly-to-belly suplex, slamming your body into the blood-soaked mat with mine on top, as if it were the headstone of your coffin. Our bodies rub against each other, our skin melting together in the heat we give off. For a moment, I let myself be carried away by the sensation, until we crash onto the canvas and I hear your groan of pain. I snap back to reality. My reality. The one where I destroy you and everything you represent to Marcus amid the screams of your former vassals. I sit up, perched on your waist, feeling your hardened member between my buttocks, and begin to unleash a brutal barrage of punches against your face, your chest… the lord’s downfall has begun amid rivers of blood spurting from my fists and your face.

MARCUS MERETRUS

I cannot take it anymore. I cannot let this rage consume you and carry you so far from reality. I know that rage too well. My fists still remember it. All those men I killed with my bare hands, drunk on blood, drunk on the screams of the crowd, drunk on my strength and my glory. But I cannot let you fall that low. I cannot accept that you become a killer out of love for me. This is not Nathan. This is not the Nate I knew either. When I hear Adrian’s nose break, I think you are going to stop. I think you are going to pin him to the ground and demand his surrender. But no. You are straddling him, and your fists are falling on him like a hailstorm.

I violently open the cage door. The crowd screams my name. I almost shiver with pleasure, my cock hardening beneath my jeans. Then I come back to myself. I am not here to fight. I am here to save the man who saved me, loved me, educated me. I do not ask myself questions. But my mind tries to confuse me . Do you still love him? I drive the question away. I throw my foot into your face. A violent round kick. Brutal. A kick meant to hurt you, to stun you. You fall to the side, freeing my man. I do not take the time to look at the damage I may have done to you.

 I lift Adrian in my arms. His body is broken, lifeless, like a puppet. His face is swollen and bloody. And yet I see something there. A smile, perhaps. Or only a grimace. Then a gurgle of words. “You… came… Was I good…? Huh…? Marcus… I…” Then nothing. I feel his warm skin against me, his sweat soaking into my T-shirt. His blood marks my clothes as if I belonged to him, the way slaves were marked in the ancient world from which I come. And I realize that, in some way, I do belong to him. His money, his power, have bound me to him. I leave the cage and rush out

I force my way through the crowd as they spit their insults, their foul breath, and their saliva at us. I hear the announcer declare the Red Scorpion the winner by abandonment. I walk toward Adrian’s doctor. An ambulance is waiting for us, and we race through the city toward the apartment. I know that soon I will have to face Nathan. To avenge my love. But perhaps also to open my heart to a new uncertain future.

NATE RIVAS

For a few moments, I am not myself. I am nothing but fury. I am nothing but justice for what time has taken from me. Rage over my lost identity, and over the lover who was taken away. But this can’t be the result of just one night of sex. What is happening to me, and what fire is consuming me as I keep striking Adrian amid a red haze of his blood splattering my face? I don’t have time to think about anything else either. Without realizing what’s happening, I feel a tremor in the canvas beneath our bodies, like a stampede closing in on me from behind, and when I turn to assess the danger, it’s already too late. Your boot, Marcus, flies toward my face in a lethal arc and hits me like a two-handed mace. My exhausted body can’t take the pain anymore—and I’m unable to brace myself for the blow—and I fall face-first onto the canvas with a tremendous impact, blood gushing from my mouth even before I hit the ground. I’m not unconscious, but I’m not fully present either, where the shouts of the spectators around me—making all sorts of demands based on their own personal interests—become a distant echo. I can only see your silhouette through the fog, carrying your beloved away, picking him up off the ground like a fallen warrior, and leading him out of the cage. And that hurts more than any blow I took during the fight. In the end, have I been feeling nothing but an illusion these past few days? Have I been chasing the fantasy of a lost memory?

When I finally get up, you’re no longer there. Neither of you. A couple of organizers enter the cage to check on me, and I brusquely push them aside, even hitting one of them, while the crowd continues to yell at me now. Frustrated at not having witnessed Adrian Duval’s definitive end. I shake them off as I leave the cage in search of the locker room. 

• Only the shower allows me a moment alone with my thoughts, as the sweat and blood from tonight wash down the drain, leaving me alone with my internal wounds. I still don’t know what’s going on between Marcus and me. I don’t know what’s going on or what’s left between Adrian and him. But I’m no longer sure I care. Now I just want revenge for that treacherous blow. The warrior takes control. And he wants to fight, despite the insistent voice that keeps whispering to him that, in reality, he wants much, much more...

THE END?

Marcus Meretrus, Nate Rivas, Adrian Duval book saga

https://mars.chatfighters.com/book/1328

Published: 2026-06-21, viewed 75 times.