Bloody nose, bloody lips, bloody knuckles. If you don’t bleed, you don’t win. Those are the rules. Make your opponent bleed? Even better. As long as there’s blood, the officials are happy. After the fight they deliver it to the Gods, for them to bath in, sleep in, devour—I’m not sure which, maybe even all three. All I know is that one day I’ll move past this. Past the violence, the threat of having to fight, the blood. One day I’ll break free.