Alone in the ring

The fighter stands alone in his ring. It's merely just the end of an alley. A car sits there in one of the two employee spaces. A streetlight flickers above casting a halo of light down into the ring.

A blue backpack is up against the side of the car. An old motorcycle stands ready. A puddle jumper motorcycle. Small whips can be heard just out of vision. The sound of fabric being flicked around.

The fighter keeps fighting empty air, alone. Down the back end of the street, people moving past the small opening to the main road. Facing him is a door and a grimy metal shutter door.

The signs of a recent fight here start appearing. Dried blood on the walls, abandoned hoodies in the dirt, bandages on the fighter's hands, hodling broken fingers together.

The door creaks open. Smoke comes out of the door first, a small trail of it. A bony hand grips the metal railing leading down into the small parking square.

"Still out here? Got a fight kid?" The woman pulls out her cigarette, tapping it nonchalantly against the wall as she walks.

"No one wants to fight me anymore," The slick black hair shakes as he stops his fist, stopping short of his imaginary opponent.

The woman stops for a second, watching the fighter. His baggy pants, simple waterproof jacket, old shoes. She pulls a face, sure she'd seen the kid get paid.

"Ever thought about joining a club if you wanna keep fighting?"

"Nope," Curt. Unresponsive. A sore subject.

The woman shrugs, the cigarette back in her mouth. We follow her back out the alley, all the while the fighter over her shoulder.

The fighter fights the air in front of him as people walk the alley. He sits at the end of it, a small figure, glancing in and out of the light. People walk past it, barely taking notice of it.