Bolt shoved his hands into his pockets, turning down the all too familiar alleyway. He paused at the steel door, staring at it for a moment, before pounding on it with the side of his fist. The door opened a crack, and Bolt could see a single eyeball, peering out.

Bolt leaned forward, winking, "Hey, Tiny, how's the business?"

The eye narrowed for a minute, before the door swung shut, only to open wide a few seconds later, revealing a very nervous looking Tiny. "Bolt, what are you doing here? If the boss catches you hanging around, it'll be your neck."

"Yeah, well, you let me worry about my neck. Is Spot around?"

"In the back," Tiny replied, jerking his head in the direction of Spot's makeshift office.

Bolt stepped inside, having to squeeze past Tiny's bulky form to do so. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the light, surveying the room. It was almost exactly as he remembered it, even down to the broken chairs. "I can see you guys have really fixed this place up," he commented dryly.

"Listen, Bolt, I don't think this is such a good idea… you should leave. I'll let Spot know you were here—"

"Don't worry about it, Tiny, you never saw me," Bolt replied, patting the large man on the shoulder, before striding across the deserted room. He stopped before the door to Spot's office, knocking.

"Not now, I'm busy," came the reply from inside.

Bolt turned the knob anyways, entering the room, and shutting the door behind him. He waited as Spot turned to see who dared to ignore his command, and couldn't help but smile as Spot's angry look turned to one of surprise.

"Well, I'll be," he smirked, leaning back in his chair, "If it isn't Bolt Henderson. Did ya miss the joint? Couldn't wait to get back in the ring?"

Bolt crossed his arms. "Spot, be honest with me. Do you have anything to do with what's going on?"

Spot raised his eyebrows, his cocky look never leaving his face. "Depends, what's going on?"

Bolt frowned, trying to decide if he was being played. With Spot it was hard to tell. Finally he sighed, sinking into one of the chairs opposite Spot's desk. He glanced over the cards that were lying out across the desktop – all royals. There was a sharp razor lying on the desk as well. Spot was marking a deck of cards. "Real busy, huh?"

Spot shrugged, smirk still in place, "Yeah. Can't be disturbed, ya make the mark too deep and someone'll catch it." He waited a beat, studying Bolt with his cool gray eyes, "So, what's going on? Or, did you just come over to catch up on old times? I can always have Tiny bring us some tea."

Bolt sighed, leaning forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, "Someone's trying to get to me."

"Really." It was more a statement than a question, but Bolt nodded an affirmative anyway.

"I'm straight now, Spot. I don't want nothin' to do with any of this stuff. I got a girl. And a job. I even have some money saved up, back from my fight days. I've got plans."

Spot leaned forward now, "You know who it is?"

"If I did, I wouldn't have come here. I thought…" Bolt trailed off, not wanting to finish the train of thought.

"You thought it might be me," Spot finished for him. "Well, sorry to disappoint, but I don't have anything to do with it. It's all I can do to keep my hand in the game, what with all these new players around. It's not like it used to be, Bolt. Things are changing, fights are getting dirtier. Almost all of them are rigged these days. Don't get me wrong, I have no problem turning a profit on illegal bets, you know that. But things are getting out of hand. The deep pockets that come in here are smarter than they're given credit for. They're going to start figuring out that they're being cheated. And me? I'm getting out, as soon as the opportunity presents itself. I'm not going down with this ship." Spot leaned back again, his eyes thoughtful.

They were both silent for a minute, while Bolt absorbed this new information.

"You know of anybody who might have it out for you?" Spot finally asked, breaking the silence.

Bolt considered the question, thinking back.

New York City, 1897

Brooklyn,

The Glass Factory

Bolt held his hands out to Spot, allowing the older boy to wrap ragged strips of cloth around his knuckles. It wasn't much, but it did offer a small buffer between his knuckles and whatever he would be making contact with. Spot finished the wrap, tying a knot in the cloth. "You ready?" he asked, his voice steady.

Bolt nodded, his mind already in the fight. He accepted the cigarette Spot offered, lighting it with a match from his pocket. Once the tip was burning red, he shook out the match's flame before inhaling deeply, allowing the nicotine to calm his nerves. He'd been fighting for six months now and he still felt a rush of adrenaline before every match.

He blew the smoke out slowly, pausing before his next drag to ask a question, "Any big shots here tonight?"

Spot shrugged, "I hear Judge Porter showed up about fifteen minutes ago. Carrying quite a wad with him too. You win this match, and we'll be set for a while."

Bolt nodded again, considering his opponent. They'd fought before and Bolt knew his weaknesses. Spot had a tendency to study the rival fighters, learning how they moved, and where they came up short. They'd spent the greater part of the week going over the shortcomings of Webster North, and Bolt was confident in a win.

Spot flicked his cigarette butt into the trashcan, and Bolt did the same, after one final drag.

"Alright, kid, let's make this quick. I've got places to be tonight."

Bolt cracked a grin at that, "Don't worry, Spot, the bars'll still be open long after this fight's over."

"Watch it smart-ass, or a bar is where you'll find yourself employed for the rest of your life," Spot returned, used to the easy camaraderie that had developed between the two. He pulled the door of the office open, gesturing for Bolt to lead the way. "Ladies first."

Bolt just shook his head as he crossed the threshold.