362 stared me down waiting for my answer.

“I’m going to kill whoever the fuck gets in that ring with me,” I promised. 362’s smile just grew wider at my pissed-off tone. I focused my attention on the white tiled floor, psyching myself up for all that I’d worked for. My legs bounced as the noise from the cage grew louder, and I knew the current fight was coming to a close. My skin was twitching from the shot I’d been getting everyday. My muscles were growing, aching all the time. I was sweating constantly and I was agitated twenty-four-seven, the littlest thing pissing me off.

“You’ll become addicted, you know,” 362 said, and my eyes slammed to his, fiery rage racing through my veins. His long black hair ran down his back, and he jerked his chin in the direction of the door that led to the cage. “Out there, all the men betting on your strength, on your will to survive. You’ll become addicted. You’ll live for the kill… live to see the life force drain from your opponents’ eyes. In that cage we’re both Gods and monsters.”

My mouth tightened and all my muscles tensed. “Never,” I spat back, my voice sounding deeper, rougher.

362 simply laughed.

“This is your first fight. You have no idea how it’s going to feel,” he taunted.

Fists clenching, I said flatly, “I’m going to do what I need to do to get out of here. That’s it. I’m not like you. I won’t like it.”

362 jumped to his feet and approached me. I stood, the concrete cold beneath my feet, and we met face to face. I was Russian; some Georgian piece of shit wasn’t going to best me.

“Not like me?” 362 quizzed. I clenched my jaw and glared into his fucking dead eyes. He smirked, then stepped farther forward until his feet touched mine. “You’re gonna end up exactly like me. You’re gonna die inside. You’re gonna spill so much blood that it’s all you’ll see. At first, you’ll hate it, but with each kill, you’re gonna need it more and more, like some fucking drug. You’re gonna change. Who you are now will no longer exist. You’ll forget who you were. You’ll forget anyone you ever loved.” 362’s lip hooked into a dry smirk, but then his face went blank. “I’ve been here years.” His head tilted forward until his mouth was at my ear, but I held my ground. “And I have no fucking idea who I was before I was brought to this hell. And in time, neither will you.”

My breath came in hard pants, but then 362 moved back. Before I’d even seen him raise an arm, he ploughed his fist into my stomach, my legs buckling as I fell to the ground.

“Enjoy your first fight… I’ve seen your opponent. You shouldn’t die tonight, as long as you keep your eyes alert and you don’t pussy out.”

Spit landed on my cheek as I lifted myself off the ground and stumbled onto my feet. A sudden boom of raucous cheering erupted from the cage. My heart began to race. The gun in the basement sounded.

The current fight had ended.

One fighter had died.

The other now knew what it was like to kill.

And it was now my turn.

Footsteps sounded down the hallway outside, bolts unlatched, and the steel door flew open, a guard appearing before me.

“Out,” he ordered.

Glancing to the back booth in the locker room, I caught sight of 362 practicing with a sai, his bladed choice of weapon. The thin blade twirled around his fingers as he watched me pass, his face betraying no emotion.

The guard smirked as I strode toward him and held out my hand for him to cuff. My stomach tensed as he looked at me; my skin crawled in disgust.

Once my wrists were bound, the guard dragged me into the dank hallway, pulling me down a set of steep stairs until the door opened and I entered the mob of men surrounding the cage.

My breathing echoed in my ears as I approached the octagonal metal cage where the Gulag’s warden waited. Some posts around the outside of the cage were manned by guards taking the spectators’ money.

The guard at my back pushed me forward. Then he undid my handcuffs. The warden gripped me by the neck and threw me toward a table full of weapons.

“Chose,” he demanded.

Nervously, I looked at what was on offer: blades, axes, sai, chains… and at the end, a bladed pair of silver knuckledusters.

“Choose!” The warden sneered. “We don’t have all fucking day!”

Reaching forward, I grabbed hold of the spiked knuckledusters, sliding them onto my damp hands, the feeling of steel against my skin so strange.

The guard behind gripped my arm and, turning me around to face the crowd, pointed to the number they’d tattooed on my chest—818. Dozens of eyes focused on me, and money began to change hands.