AGAROS : The Love Betrayal

« I was torn. On one hand, this need to avoid violence, to protect my brother, to be responsible. On the other, this reflex that had taken hold of me, as though I were no longer in control of my choices. »

Chapter 8

Marc spent his time flirting with girls. He'd call them, kiss them, take their numbers. The pub had become his hunting ground, a place where subtlety was never part of his game.

He was always there, with his charming smile and his perfectly rehearsed jokes. I watched him with weariness, his natural confidence reflecting back at me a part of myself I no longer liked.

— I thought you had a girlfriend...

I shot it at him as I saw him laughing with a girl, his eyes bright, his words smooth as honey.

— Well, that doesn't stop me from having a little fun, he replied, as if nothing had happened.

That was Marc. Always a joke, always a game. I could almost predict his next words before they even came out of his mouth.

But I wasn't like that.

I had Charlotte's revelations in my head. I hoped they would be easy for him to swallow: a bitch who cared only about money, and I intended to prove that truth to him.

— Get out of here, you guys! growled a guy, slamming his fist onto our table.

His gaze was cruel, almost animal-like, and his smell fouled the air around him.

My stomach twisted. A part of me wanted to back off, let Marc handle it, stay on the sidelines. I knew everything could spiral out of control, and the closer I got to that reality, the more I felt fear gnawing at me: the fear of fighting, the fear of surrendering to my instincts, the fear of exposing myself.

— But why be so wild, my bear friend? Marc amused himself with the situation, his smile untouched.

— You two, get out of here! You're stealing all the girls!

Marc shrugged with a kind of defiance that always made me uncomfortable.

I felt the shiver of confrontation. My body was tense, ready to act, but my mind was in conflict. I wanted to avoid the violence, protect myself, but there was always that reflex, that weight in my chest.

I wondered if that was it: this part of me I couldn't control. A mix of instinct, adrenaline, and fear.

— But it's normal, look at your face, he said.

He had this knack for never backing down in confrontations, even when they escalated.

The man came closer, his gaze growing more dangerous.

— Hey, blondie, are you mocking me?

Marc looked so sure of himself, amused, as though he could escape any situation with a smile. I didn't have that confidence. Every second was an internal battle, a battle to not break my own promises.

Marc continued his jokes, but this time, there was something in his laughter, a hint of bravado, almost as if it were a way to mask his own nervousness.

— Oh your breath! You smell like a jackal! You know, toothbrushes exist! And toothpaste too!

Marc had a knack for playing with fire. He pretended to choke, pinched his nose as though he couldn't stand the smell. It sent the room into laughter.

But that laughter was unbearable to me. It felt like it was pushing the air away from us, pulling us further from what I felt: fear, discomfort, the urge to stop it all before it spiraled even further.

But the man, out of his mind, didn't back down.

— I'm going to knock you out! he threatened.

Then, without warning, he threw a punch toward Marc. My heart leapt. Instinctively, my arm shot up, ready to block the motion, to protect my friend, but also, unconsciously, to protect myself.

I didn't want to fight. I didn't like it anymore. But in that moment, everything had shifted. My body acted on its own.

The punch stopped dead, blocked by my arm, but everything accelerated afterward. Marc had already grabbed a water bottle from the table, a flash of brutality in his eyes. One movement, one blow, and the man collapsed to the ground.

My heart pounded like a drum. I had reacted without thinking, as though fear and instinct had conspired to make the best decision, a decision that was as unbearable as it was necessary. I hated fighting. I hated violence.

But what was I supposed to do? Let Marc get hit? Let this guy put us in danger?

Marc still had that smile, that playful look that made him seem like he was always in control.

— You okay? he asked, looking at me, his smile intact despite the changed atmosphere in the room.

I didn't answer right away. I was afraid my voice would betray what I felt: shame, fear, a sense of helplessness.

I was torn. On one hand, this need to avoid violence, to protect my brother, to be responsible. On the other, this reflex that had taken hold of me, as though I were no longer in control of my choices.

My body had chosen. My mind hesitated.

And now, that tension hung in the air around us. Others were watching, the silence had returned, but it tasted bitter.

The doors opened, a group of bikers—men who looked like twins to the one we had just brought down—were waiting for us.

Marc and I exchanged a glance, our breathing still uneven.

— Perfect timing, we need to digest this! Marc said with a sly smile, as though nothing had just happened.

Marc looked so sure of himself. But I felt devoured by shame.

The shame of losing control, of losing what I considered essential: not fighting anymore.

♧

The air was cool, the night stretched out in a nearly deceptive silence. I walked aimlessly. The calm after the storm had a strange taste. The streets were empty, the light from the streetlamps casting dancing shadows onto the ground.

I was just a few meters from the gym when a honk startled me. I turned. A luxury car, its engine rumbling in the nocturnal stillness, approached slowly.

The window rolled down, and a man in an impeccable suit locked eyes with me.

— Good evening, handsome young man. I have need of your services.

His tone was smooth, measured. I didn't know him, but a shiver worked its way into me.

— Sorry, old man, but I'm not into your kind of business, I said, without slowing down.

He shook his head, as if my response were nothing more than a detail.

— Apologies for the misunderstanding, but I'm interested in you for an entirely different reason.

I stopped, irritated, with that familiar feeling of bad luck, as though something strange had just slipped into the air.

— Cut the crap, I haven't got all night, I said in a sharp tone.

He stepped out of the car. The sound of the door, the engine, the headlights—all of it made me hesitate.

— Listen, how about working for me?

He moved with the assured gait of a man who knew he could buy anything he wanted.

— What's the job about?

— Doing what you love most: fighting. I enjoyed your little demonstration in the pub earlier, and I think you have incredible potential.

I felt a dull heat in my stomach, a growing sense of unease. His offer had dug into my mind, awakening memories and silent but powerful promises: the death of a friend who had succumbed to injuries from a street fight, my fear of ending up like him one day if I let myself fall into the violence, the fear of losing my brother.

I knew I could refuse. My heart was pounding like a drum in my chest, yet a part of me was tempted. Money. Money that I desperately needed. But what would that money cost? Would it be at the price of breaking my promises? Was it necessary?

I took the card he offered without thinking. A part of me knew I wouldn't call, but something about this scene had paralyzed me.

I looked down at the card in my hand again. It almost burned, as though it were trying to give me an answer, but I knew it was just silence. I imagined myself already in the arena, my fists raised, the money following, and that shadow of fear, that part of me whispering: you're better than this.

He climbed back into his car. I stood there for a moment, watching the headlights disappear into the distance.

I took a step into the darkness, feeling the cool air envelop me. The silence was dense, only broken by the distant sound of a car and the echoes of a nightlife that always seemed on the verge of starting.

I was on my way home, my mind still tangled with the encounter. A job offer, the strange promise of quick gains, fighting, potential. I had accepted it without really knowing why. Not as a truth but as a weight, a hesitation rooted in a part of me that I didn't understand.

The alleys were nearly deserted. The ground beneath my shoes creaked, a sensation of loneliness that should have reassured me. But something lingered in the air: a dull, hard-to-define tension.

Suddenly, a noise.

Not the sound of a car, nor a passerby, but something more precise, more immediate. My heart quickened. I froze, muscles tense.

Ahead of me, a figure moved, quick, desperate. A girl. She looked like she was fleeing. I saw her just in time: her hair danced under the light of a streetlamp. She looked disoriented, frightened. Her shoes slapped the cobblestones with frantic desperation.

Behind her, another figure. A man, tall, his features indistinct but menacing in the shadows. He advanced with terrifying confidence.

My body reacted before my mind could even process it.

Instinct told me something wasn't right.

I charged.