Into the Ring (m/m)

It's not long before the referee calls the match and the taekwondo fighter is slumped against the mesh frame of the cage, sporting a black eye and numerous other bruises. The Brazilian pumps a fist into the air, but for some reason he isn't too enthusiastic about the win. Small wonder, given how crummy his opponent was. Still, you'd think he'd at least smile for the audience. Mostly he seems to be avoiding eye contact with the guy he'd just beaten into the cage. One of the attendants opens the door, and the winner steps out, grabbing a towel and wiping his face. He barely even broke a sweat.

I can't see what was so interesting about this match.

"Okay," I grumble, "It's over now. Let's-"

Damian's smile never falters, "Actually... it's only just begun."
Two of the attendants enter, and the taekwondo fighter looks up at them from beneath his auburn bangs. He's young... can't be more than twenty. Though he's fit enough to look like he works out casually, he isn't built as thickly as most of the gym meatheads I bump into. A fighter's gotta be light on his feet after all. Flexibility and speed often count more than strength. Even though he's fair-skinned and brown-haired, there's a certain softness to his features, something about his eyes like he's half-Asian or something.

His shoulders are slumped, and there's a defeated look in his gaze. It's from more than just losing the match. He looks so beaten, like he's standing in front of a judge awaiting a sentence. I feel my heartbeat quickening with a sense of dread, realization suddenly dawning that they're going to do something horrible to him.

The attendants grab the guy, and he lets out a soft whimper as they grip his shirt. The fighter yelps as they pull, ripping the cotton from his back so violently that he's thrown to the ground.

My jaw drops then. I can't believe what I'm seeing. One of them grabs the guy in a headlock, and the his fingers only tug his assailant's arm weakly. The other attendant pulls loose his belt, and that strip of black cloth flops to the ground like a dead snake. Bare chest heaving, glistening with sweat, the fighter's toes twist on the canvas as they tug loose the tie of his pants and pull down, then shove him to the canvas mat so he's on all fours.