Severin

Severin is sitting on an overturned crate in the back room at the entrance to "Ulei." A regular fight — some hustler from the middle world, made some cash and decided he’d lay down his life just to get some publicity. Who cares. His head is empty, and that’s good.

He’s winding bandages — evenly, tightly, as usual. Tim is watching him, chewing gum, and Lazar is there too — with his usual jacket over a t-shirt.

— Did your car make it okay? — Tim asks. — I listened to the clutch like it was a funeral.

— It’s running — and that’s good, — Severin replies without looking up. (Why did he even ask? Just to talk. To not think about the fight.)

Lazar approaches, checks the bandages, tugs at the knots.

— Stand straight, champ. You’ll be standing straight all evening.

— Uh-huh, — Severin replies dryly.

(A regular fight. A regular pit. Regular bets. Three thousand spectators, half bet on me. Half bet on him. Let them bet.)

He stands up, takes off a chain from his neck — that very thin steel one, — unclamps the clasp and hands it to Tim. Tim takes it silently. That’s how it’s done. At the door, Lazar puts a hand on his shoulder and says just one thing:

— Live, since you survived.

The iron door opens — light, roar of the crowd, smell of sweat and cheap beer. Severin takes a step — and his eyes are empty.

(Let’s work.)