The night had blurred into a meaningless, timeless blob.
Under the harsh lights of the arena, Zuko vaguely reflected on how he ended up in this position. He remembered Katara scornfully suggesting street fighting and prostitution, sneaking out from the abandoned factory, and being pushed out into the ring after expressing he was willing to fight.
He adjusted the mask he wore on his face to hide his scar, feeling sweat already starting to form near his hairline. What had he gotten himself into?
This is to restore my honor, Zuko told himself, settling into a fighting stance. I need the money.
He had opted to fight without bending. Even thinking about the last time he was in a bending battle caused a bitter taste to flood his mouth.
Though that hadn't been a battle as much as it had been just him cowering in front of his father.
Maybe he wouldn't have banished me if I had fought back.
A girl in thick makeup stood and rang the gong, signaling the start of the fight.
But now wasn't the time to reflect on maybes and what-ifs.
Zuko dodged the punch the other man threw, throwing one of his own and dully noticing the difference in texture between a punching bag and a human body.
If one ignored the warmth and the crunching bone, it really was the same.