The two men faced each other, evenly spaced. Hunch in an assault position, they seemed like two tigers, observing each other with deft reflex, waiting for one to make the first move. One had a stitched chin; the other had a bruised eye. A trickle of sweat meandered down the side of one’s cheek, making its addition to the pool of sweat that soaked the gray cemented floor, plummeting down in a fresh red, bloody water droplet. The stagnant air was suffocating; the darkness was welcoming and enveloping; the two of them knew that. Back in their minds all they wanted was to stop. Exhausted, they were just hanging on.

Hanging on, not for a victory; hanging on, onto that thin thread of life. Someone would have to go. Well, time was running out. Yes, if one didn’t go in the time frame, a bullet would be in their heads. If one took out the guy facing him, he will win nothing but blood stained upon his limbs. The prize money? Oh to hell with that, they all go to Master.

Yes, they don’t know his name. Every guy that steps into that grey cemented floor has a master. Master gives them food. Master, is the guy with the whip. Don’t obey, and the whip comes lashing out like a gun from its holster. Staying alive was what keeps the Master happy. Bringing him money was their job. With no cause for life, they were called dogs.

The Masters did not know who they were working for either. All they knew was that, he was sitting somewhere in the midst of the jubilant, ecstatic crowd, carefully hidden from sight. They called him the Boss. The guy with the round shades, the big fat cigar that dangled from his mouth and the guy who spoke with a gruff voice. Yes, he sat somewhere in the crowd, a club fly on his lap that went for 50 bucks an hour.

The guy with the stitched chin, nicknamed steel fist, stands at six foot eight, no one knows his real name. Or rather, they forgot. This is his 20^th round in the ring, technically saying, unbeaten for nineteen rounds straight. Deadly uppercut, killer blows, attained his bleeding chin in a mash-up with the cops. Experienced, he is known to be filial to his Master, dedicated to his cause. The guy with the bruised eye, better known as killer instinct, stands a stout figure at five foot nine. Newbie, no one knows much about him, he stands tall in his third round in the game.

It’s been past the 20 minute mark. 10 minutes left on the clock. Frustration hit the roof; the masters had their hands on their holsters. This was a tight match, there didn’t seem to be an ending to it. Perhaps, they should come to a conclusion. Steel fist made his move. He lashed out a clenched fist. Killer instinct ducked. He swung around and put his knee right into his opponent’s stomach. Steel fist winced, recovering a defensive stance. Killer instinct continued on the offensive, his leg shot right into steel fist’s chin. There, first blood; the stitch opened. Blood gushed out of the wound. The stalemate has been broken. The crowd erupted in sheer ecstasy. The Masters relaxed hands off their holsters. It seemed, they were in for a fruitful 10 minutes after all.

***        ***        ***

He lay flat on his stomach. Damp rotten wood emanated an unbearable stench. No, but that did not bother him. He examined the sniper rifle that lay in front of him, prodded upon the thin wooden ledge that looked like it was going to collapse if a fly landed on it. He put his head into his khaki jacket, smearing the sweat that trickled down his cheeks in torrents. He checked his clock. Luminous hands showed 3.30pm. The suspect will make his move at 3.40pm. Perched in a wooden box suspended above the fighting arena, he had a simple task. Remain low, gun him down, and then get the hell out of there.

But now he knew why it was a top-ranked mission.

The crowd was a mad pile of sardines trapped a confined unventilated space. Well, that’s why they called it ‘underground’ didn’t they? With all those armed bouncers and heavy security, it had been an uphill climb to even get in without being identified as an outlier. What made it even worse was the fact that he had not identified his target at all. According to the fact file provided, his suspect would leave discreetly. He would have to be extremely alert.

He swore under his breath. Five more minutes till his suspect makes his move. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he struggled to keep himself in a tranquil state of mind. He reached for the binoculars. Twenty-time optical zoom, high definition lenses, the prime of its time, this was the most expensive pair of binoculars anyone could possibly lay their hands on. He planted it carefully onto the ledge, away from the scorching sunlight. He loaded the sniper rifle with a single bullet. Yes, a solitary shot was what he needed. It was make or break. Succeed or fail, he’d have to disappear before they lock him in.

Click. The bullet locked itself into position.

He lapsed into focus. Everything around him was a blur. It was just him, the crowd, and the gun. The crowd was like a bunch of buzzing flies. All he had to do was to reach in, and pick the right one. Yes, that exact fly. He was banking it would be the fattest, juiciest fly in the pack. He put his finger onto the trigger and locked upon his intended target.

He pulled. The solitary bullet made its way headlong into the barrel, shooting out into midair. He counted, exactly two seconds. The target clutched his chest, the ring of fresh red blood spreading rapidly across his chest. The crowd rushed over to the rapidly escalating commotion in a massive wave.

He hopped off the hiding spot and landed softly on the ground. He darted and weaved through the crowd, disappearing in the midst of the confusion.  His job was done. A bounty of ten grand was heading for his pocket.