Heart in hand, the old man dashes. Within seconds, a clash of fists transpire. Like a continuous series of bullets, their fists go back and forth with no end. They are at a stalemate, one made by a clear lack of advantage over each other, their blows seem like they will continue for an eternity.

But that's only what it looks like on the surface.

The young man's stamina expires at a rate faster than his opponent. Hitting with one arm alone, his other does not even land a single hit.

Thrusting at an angle and speed different from before, the old man on the right lands a clear hit on the younger one's face. The crowd cheers as the young man in grey stop.

"Pah!" A lone tooth finds its way from his mouth onto the barren floor. To prevent any more, the young man in grey tries to use his arms as a shield. Try as he might, however, it's of little use. If there's one thing that's certain, it's that he's slow. Far too slow.

Before anything can be done, another thrust by the old man is sent straight into his face. Once a charming albeit disgruntled piece of softened flesh, his appearance is now tainted by the colour of fresh blood.

A crowd that immerses itself in the violence, cheers. A round of rambunctious applause and shouts echo in the vein of gladiatorial museums of yore.

My own body feels the same. I can't quite place the feeling but, I can't deny it either. For some reason unknown to me, I feel my heart pound out of my chest. As if it's trying to shake itself from its mortal body and jump into the arena of ethereal brutality, there's no mistaking its presence.

As the crowd continues its yelling, the young man now rests his knee on the floor. Bloodied and bruised as he may be, his overall condition seems alright. Though, that's only in regards to his physical state. In terms of his mental one?

He seems like he's on the brink of tears. And worse of all are his arms. Pathetically swinging about, shielding him from his opponent, I can't bear it.

It's pitiful. If you're going to go into these types of fights, then you shouldn't expect things such as mercy. It's as if going to a forest and expecting a desert. In essence, really fucking stupid.

But, even if it's less than stellar, the ambience of the fight captures me all the same. While the fight should be over, the old man hesitates. Perhaps because his opponent is at the brink of despair, and perhaps because he feels a twinge of pity, he does not land the ultimate blow. Not wanting to finish the fight or knock him unconscious, he instead stands doing nothing. Staring into empty space for a moment, his eyes then sweep through the crowd in place of his opponent.

Is he new? The more I think about it, the more likely it seems. All this waiting around and all this lack of action. Something about it seems off.

I look closer at his face. As I suspect, it's one that covers itself with a facade. One of mercy, and one of an inability to continue his fight against a weakened opponent, there's no doubt about it.

"Hm."

That in itself is commendable. To have the self-control to not senselessly batter a downed opponent and finish the job is a rare sight. As someone who would do the same, I understand.

There's nothing gained from such an experience. In terms of skill, there'll be none gained from battering someone who surrendered. But in terms of logic?

The old man is at fault. To join a fight in a place such as this and to be unwilling to participate in its tradition is odd, to say the least.

If he hadn't moved his eyes away from his target, then what's about to happen probably wouldn't have.

At the same time, though, there is no way to react to his next attack. Faster than anything he had thrown before, the young man's right arm surges upward alongside his own body.

And yet, the speed of his punch is still within the realm of defence for the old man.

A loud crash. An unexpected scene unfurls before us.

With a single blow, his bones that were once covered by skin, now protrude out of it. Like the crooked splinters that emerge from shattered wood, it branches off in dozens of directions.

But, this blow is not the work of skill, much less strength. It's not even a product of hard work. The old man who is far superior in skill will lose because of one thing.

The misfortune of fighting against a person with a cyberized arm.

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An advantage solidified in money alone. It disgusts me. Not only did he strike him at an opportunity of surprise, but he had done so against an opponent that granted him mercy.

"Idiot.'"

The crowd erupts in roars yet again. But this time, I remain silent. The young man then goes to finish what's left of the job. Ten, or around a dozen or so blows, launch against the old man. Mercilessly striking him down, until his whole body has fallen unto the earth, before beating him up, even more, the young man doesn't stop.

Even at the distance that I am at, there's no mistaking the expression on the young man's face. A twisted smile of an unsound mind is one that betrays his innate sense of inferiority and must be compensated with the destruction of others.

As a result, the battle ends. Without so much as a glorious finale, it instead culminates in a surprise attack and artificial advantage. It’s terrible. There’s no doubt that the old man can survive this. Given all the medication available even at this facility alone, his condition albeit a grisly one, can be fixed. But, that’s not the problem here. Anyone who comes to this place, understands that the biggest problem lies with what comes after his treatment.

In life, there’s a fundamental difference between living and surviving. To survive is to breathe and to continue being able to function as a organic being. But to live is another matter entirely. Truth be told, I’m not the type that thinks highly of people in general. I admit it, I have a disgusting personality, but I don’t think I’m wrong either.

Frankly, I just don’t think most people live meaningful lives. That’s all there is to it. Whether it be working a boring office job, getting married, or having kids, I’m not the type of person that sees value in such an existence. And I don’t see why I should. In the end, it’s not like they’re mostly good people either. As much as they lie to themselves, about how moral or righteous they must be, it’s all bullshit.

People just survive for survivals sake. When push comes to shove, I guarantee the vast majority of these moral people become animals. But at least, the people here already are. Sure, they might not accomplish much, but they’re living their life to the fullest. Fighting, trading blows and displaying courage unfound in the common person, these are people I can consider to be living.

And as one of those people who are living, the old man is subject to my pity. To my condolence, to my compassion and to my acknowledgment, it’s made all the worse by the fact that the same old man also treated the opponent who attacked him with kindness.

I don’t think that judging people off one action alone is right. But I can’t shake the feeling that the old man might be a good person. Maybe it’s just my sentimentality, or maybe I’m just getting weak, but I feel something. To be a fighter and have your future taken away from you is one thing, but to be that and a good person that is unjustly treated is another.

And even if he could still fight after the injuries, there’s no talking of the disadvantages and setbacks he would face. Whether it be physical or mental, I don’t know if the old man will be able to live a life worth living after this.

Given my own personal history, I don’t think I would be able to either.

Understanding that, something changes within me.

I have no way of saying what's on my mind. In reality, it's as if nothing's there. All the feeling, all the energy in my body, goes to my raw emotion. My reasoning deteriorates, and my breath transforms into fire. It hurts so badly that I feel like the world's spinning. Around and around and around and around, it doesn’t stop. Like there's some sort of invisible string, tugging at the centre of my body, bringing it all on top of each other, it feels as if my integrity is being violated.

That’s when I feel the water on my body. Whether out of stupidity or ignorance, I only now come to understand that a layer of cold sweat layers my skin. More then that, I come to understand that I’m breathing very heavily.

What is happening? Why is my heart beating so fast, why are my knees shaking, why am I even here, why why why why why why why.

I attempt to rationalize why, but all I feel a slurry of thoughts invade my consciousness.

All I know is that I want something to happen. I don’t quite know what it is, but I know it relates to me getting in there. I want it so bad. How long has it been since I wanted something to this extent? I don’t know. I can’t answer that question. All I know is I can’t stand how things are going any longer and that I’m excited but angry at the same time.

As my eyes frantically dart about the scene, I realize that my hand is clutching at my chest. And for the first time since forever, I yell from the depths of my soul.

"GO FUCK YOURSELF!"

Wow. That feels good. Even if no one entertains my words. Even if not a single person pays so much as a smidgen of attention to my existence. I don't care. It feels really good. Knowing that I said my opinion of my bastard out loud is enough to bring me to the verge of laughter.

How long has it been since I felt this good?

I don't have the answer to that question. Though, I do know that I want more. More of this satiation, more of me imposing my existence, and more of the people around me acknowledging me.

If I can't make myself seen through words, then I'll do it by force.

Originally, my intention was to wait until later and to fight when a proper opportunity arose. But what am I saying? I've got this all wrong. In the first place, there's no greater opportunity than now.

In that instant, I decide on my course. Against the two-meter high wall fence before me, I prepare my body. Then, with a brisk run and surge of my legs, I land on the other side. With my knee in the snow, the whole crowd turns to look at me. Maybe because they don't care, or maybe because they want to see the man punished, I don't care.

Their opinions are irrelevant to me. As significant as a summer ant, my focus is instead on the man before me. Slowly but surely, I lift my body off the snow and stare at him.

God, his expression is so delightful. That surprise, that post-victory aura of triumph, it's just so wonderful. All those traits and all those features just stimulate me even more.

I thought I was angry at first, but now I'm not so sure.

Because if that really is the case, then why Camille.

Why are you smiling?