The walk home is cold.  I'm only wearing ripped skinny jeans and a thin long-sleeve shirt, which isn't enough to keep me warm from the cooling wind that blows against me, sending shivers running up my spine.

I wrap my arms around my middle, slowly trodding home and mumbling a series of curse words under my breath.

Whatever happened in that car instantly put me into the worst possible mood in the history of bad moods. His smart mouth and witty insults made me double over in rage, and that car ride was just as torturous as I thought it would be.

I plant my face in my palms and muffle a scream. I can almost feel my rage taking over and hot tears sting the back of my eyes as I glance at my watch.

Knowing I don't have very long until my shift starts, I bolt for my house, running along the sidewalks and failing to look both ways as I cross the streets.

I push back angry tears, letting the breeze dry my eyes and leave my lips chapped. There's no way I'm missing a minute of my job tonight; it's Nightfall Knockout today, and the club will be packed. I'll make double than what I get on normal Friday shifts, and maybe even triple if the audience likes what they see.

This job pays well, and has been ever since I applied at the start of summer break. I'm young for it, but it was never a matter of age. If I could walk in heels the entire day, I already got the job.

I reach my house and open the front door, slamming it shut behind me. I run upstairs and change into my "uniform": a tight black dress that ends just above my knees and a ruffled pair of nylon tights, incomplete without the three inch heels I've managed to hide in my closet.

There's a full body mirror in my bedroom and the first thing I do is sneak a quick glance at my reflexion. I can't imagine myself as two people at once; studious, hardworking Delta versus rebellious, daredevil Delta. Yet here I am, a little less than ten minutes of changing that turns me from a high school, can-barely-control-her-temper student, to a girl that looks ten years older.

I hurry out of the house as quickly as I can while stumbling in slick black stilettos, cursing under my breath when I reach the roughly paved surface that is our driveway. I always knew heels weren't made for running, but I was confident they'd be a little bit easier to scurry in than this.

My dad's car is parked on the driveway: an old silver corolla that none of us ever have the heart to replace. It's rusting at the edges, but still drives like "a husky in snowstorm" (as my dad often says.)

I get in the car and stick the keys in the ignition, watching in anticipation as it rumbles to life. Slowly, I back it out of the driveway and crank the radio high, letting the music drain out my thoughts as I drive down the street and head to work.

__

Today, the club lights are dimmed to a minimum, leaving only one source of illumination in the middle of the building. Spotlight shines over a greasy basement floor, creating the outline of a shining white circle with people clumped around it. Some of the booze in their hands spills from their glasses, but they don't seem to care. And as it drips, drips... drips over their fingers, the bitter smell of alcohol drifts into the heated air and seeps into my senses. I cough.

This is no place for someone like me.

I was right. It is packed today, and it's only 4 p.m. The reason being the Nightfall Knockout this evening I'm guessing.

In the months that I have worked in this club every Friday night, I've witnessed a total of three knockouts, and the last one was so bad one of the fighters had to leave immediately due to a broken his jaw.

Bile rises in my throat at the memory. I force a swallow and head for the bar.

"Booker! Sorry I'm late," I say to my boss, leaning on a bar stool and taking hard sips at his giant jug of beer. Because of the way his eyes sink deep into his skull and paleness of his skin, I can guess this isn't his first cup of beer he'd chugged down today.

"Ah, don't worry 'bout it. Louise 'n Sarah had that part 'a your shift covered," he starts. "Ya got here just in time, the rush just started." He slurs his words, then takes another swing of his beer. "I know how ya high school students are. Busy with work 'n whatnot. Just glad ya decided to show up."

I smile. Getz Booker—the owner of the club and my boss—has a child of his own. He told me her name is Marilyn, a freshman at St. Hollins High. When I applied, he told me he would look after me if I took the job, helping to hide my "seventeen-year-old-high-schooler" identity to keep me safe. He hasn't once backed down from his promise, and it's one of the reasons why I take comfort in my work.

"So, who's up first?" I ask.

"The fight don't start 'ntil seven. Serve 's many of 'em as ya can before the Knockout, 'n you can be out before the match starts."

I nod. He knows I hate watching the fights. The first time was completely traumatizing. I still remember watching in horror as the competitors wiped blood from their noses and mouths.

I walk around the club, scanning to see if there might be anyone who wants something to drink before the Knockout.

I spot a small table with two blonde girls sitting across from each other. One talks nonstop about her day, waving her hands in gestures while the other one nods in understanding, resting her head on her palms. I go to them first, running a hand down my dress to smooth any wrinkles on the fabric.

"Welcome to Shell Shock. Can I get you lovely ladies anything to drink today?" I ask them, my voice switching from flustered to professional in minutes.

"One second." One woman holds up her finger at me, and I force myself not to scowl at her in response. "Can I get a jug of Brava please?" she starts. "And she is going to get..."

"A water with lemon." she whispers, rubbing her palms on her jeans.

"You don't want anything else?" the first blonde says. "A beer? Wine, maybe?"

The second girl shakes her head, then looks down at the table. Her nails clutch the wooden edge, and I spot her left foot tapping the floor under her chair.

"Wait, she's going to get a glass of champagne instead. Scratch the water," the first blonde says.

I tense, looking at the other girl who's sweating, the waves of golden hair falling in front of her face, hiding her expression.

"But, I don't want the champagne," she whispers, her voice almost inaudible.

"Come on, Char. Don't be a baby, you're trying it," the first blonde snaps.

"If she wants water, I'll get her water," I say, smiling at the both of them. I walk away from their table, but I can almost feel the first blonde glaring at me from behind.

I return to their table a few minutes later with a cup of ice water with lemon, and a jug of Brava. Despite my withering grin, the first girl refuses to look at me, stirring her drink with the black straw I had given her. The other girl looks up at me and beams, mumbling a polite "Thank you" before taking a sip of her glass.

"No problem," I say, then walk off to serve more customers.

Over the next few hours, I manage to serve about half of the tables in the club. Shell Shock is located in the basement of an old office apartment and the previous owner had moved away, giving the keys to Getz to start whatever business he wanted.

He chose to create his very own joint, and even scored a deal on an alleged collaboration to turn his place into a fight club one Friday of every month.

Today is that Friday.

Louise and Sarah, two women I have come to know as my coworkers (and my friends,) meet me at the front counter of the bar, taking tiny sips of their glasses of white wine.

"Damn it, this dress is starting to get too tight for me," Louise says, stretching out the material at her waist. "I can almost feel the wine baby kicking me."

I giggle at her, noticing Sarah's head pop over Louise's shoulder. "Honey, you look fine. If I was into girls, I would give Johnny a run for his money."

Johnny is Louise's husband, and they've been married for 8 years now. They have a son named Timothy, and despite his blue-eyed, brown-haired mother and his green-eyed, black-haired father, Timothy has a beautiful clump of red curls on his head, and very dark coloured eyes.

Almost like Xavier's eyes.

No! No, no, no. I won't let infuriating thoughts of that boy ruin my evening. He doesn't deserve to be thought of by me. What he deserves is a punch in the face! Repeatedly!

"Baby, what's wrong?" Sarah asks, looking at me as though I've just been crying an entire ocean of tears.

"Oh—what? Me? Nothing. Nothing's wrong," I lie. I don't want to talk to them about that boy, I don't even want to think about him. "Just tired, that's all."

"Ugh, high school. I remember those days. So long ago," Louise teases. "I wasn't the best kid, but you're not like how I was. I can tell." She winks at me, and I blush, the meaning of the compliment settling in.

There's a loud voice coming from the centre of the club that catches my attention; someone yelling into a microphone, cheers erupting, more shouting, and then the blink of lights as all of them are turned off except for one... the boxing spotlight. As the crowd begins to clump in the middle forming a ring around the beam, I furrow my eyebrows and listen to the MC's voice echo through the joint.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Shell Shock's October Nightfall Knockout!" he yells.

Cheers erupt once again, and I force the urge to cover my ears.

"Oh, the match is about to start!" Sarah shrieks. "I wonder what beefcakes we have fighting in the ring today." She wiggles her eyebrows at the two of us, and Louise chuckles.

"Actually, that's my cue to leave. Booker gave me the rest of the night off. Today's mine and Johnny's anniversary." She scoots off the bar stool and stands on her heels. Sarah and I share a look.

As soon as Louise disappears into the back room, Sarah snaps her head to me. "You sure you're alright?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, of course. I'm fine really." I force a smile. I don't want her to worry about me. She's such a carefree person, I would hate to make her stress about a problem that isn't even hers.

Sarah wearily turns back to the ring, where the MC is busy yelling into the mic to get the crowd going. Alcohol isn't just spilling from people's glasses... the cups are falling to the floor, the sounds of shattering glass hard to hear over the yelling and stomping of the audience.

"Today, we have two serious competitors who've worked their asses all the way to Shell Shock, ranked as some of the top championship fighters in the city." The crowd quiets in anticipation, waiting for the speaker to tell them who'll be fighting in the Knockout. I turn to look at Sarah.

"This stuff isn't even legal," I tell her. "Why did Getz allow it in his club?"

"Why not? It pays good. Without it, you and I wouldn't get the money we so generously deserve."

I smirk at her, partially agreeing, partially disagreeing. I've never been one for violence. I watched a few gory movies here and there, but to see it in real life? It's something entirely different.

"The first fighter is one you may have heard of. One-hundred percent solid fury with the power to kill you and bring you back to life in a single blow... give it up for The Resurrector!"

The crowd springs to life. Fists pumping the air and shouting caves in on the centre of the joint. Alcohol is thrown into the ring as a large figure emerges under the spotlight.

Holy shit, he's huge.

This guy is 300 pounds of solid muscle. Coarse hair covers his ripped chest entirely, and his arms look like they could pass for a pair of thighs. He looks like he hasn't gotten a haircut in a year, and a long black beard reaches down all the way to his pecks. He's chuckling, and the skin on his torso flexes as he laughs.

I immediately feel bad for the guy that's about to fight him.

"The second fighter stays under the radar. His tactics are unfamiliar, yet he's an unbeatable champion. Give it up for the outsider, Foster Prince!"

The audience isn't as loud, but they still go wild at his name. There's more hoots, some people even howl, which earns them an angry grunt from Mr. Resurrector.

"That's it, I'm out of here," I say, standing up from the bar stool.

"Where're you going?" Sarah asks me. "Not gonna stay for the show?"

"It's my break time, wouldn't wanna put it to waste."

"Party-pooper," she calls after me. I laugh at her, taking out the elastic band from my hair and letting it fall to my shoulders. I run my fingers through it and head for the exit, tilting my head back with a sigh when—thump. I bump into someone in front of me, almost stumbling back and tripping on my heels before hands grip my forearms, keeping me from falling.

"Sorry," I say, widening my eyes in embarrassment. Whoever had just caught me goes incognito, because when I look up at them, their face is shielded behind the shadow of a black hood, and there's dark ink drawn in lines all over their skin. The lighting is horrible, but I think their sweatshirt is unzipped, revealing nothing underneath except for a built chest. My words get caught in my throat.

Am I wheezing? I think I'm wheezing.

"S-sorry. Um... didn't see you there," I manage. I hear a quiet chuckle coming from the figure as he lets me go, then walks off and disappears into the crowd.

Next thing I know, I'm walking deeper into the crowd, and closer to the fight.