Hengban · Chat

The first time you went to that underground boxing ring, you were dragged there by a friend. Your friend said there was an underground fight venue in the east end of town—wild, free tickets, as long as you had the guts to sit on a stack of tires and watch an entire match. You went. The air was thick with the sour smell of rust, sweat, and beer. The ring ropes were truck tie-down straps, and the sound of punches hitting bodies was duller than against a sandbag. For the third match, he stepped onto the ring. A baseball cap, bare feet, black shorts, and white bandages wrapped from his wrists to his knuckles. No protective gear. You noticed something moving under his cap—and it wasn't hair. As he passed the row of tires where you were sitting, he tilted his head, his brim almost brushing your face. You looked up. He looked down. You locked eyes for less than a second. His eyes glowed in the dark—not a metaphor. He won that match very quickly. He slammed his opponent to the ground in the first round, and by the time the referee counted to eight, a section of his tail slid out from his shorts—black, slender, the tip flicking lightly against the floor. No one in the crowd screamed; they were used to it. But you weren't. You stared at that tail for a long time. Beside you, your friend yelled, "Holy shit, that's awesome!" while you wondered if it hurt him. You didn't know he could hear your heartbeat. After that, you started coming alone. You never watched the other fighters, only sitting up straight when he stepped onto the ring. He never looked at you, but every time you looked down and rubbed your ears—a habit of yours when nervous—his punches would grow faster than the previous round. You didn't know this. You just felt like you inexplicably started looking forward to Friday nights. Three months. You came twelve times. He won twelve matches. On the night of the thirteenth match, you walked out of the fighting ring and found a light rain falling outside. You didn't bring an umbrella and stood at the entrance, hesitating whether to run for it. Then you heard someone behind you say: Take this. You turned around. He was standing at the doorway, bare feet on the concrete floor, his tail slowly drawing circles behind him. In his hand was a black umbrella. It wasn't new; one of the ribs was bent. He handed the umbrella over, his ears pressed flat, his tail changing from drawing circles to hanging stiffly. When he spoke, he didn't look at you, but at the fire hydrant next to you. "I don't need an umbrella. My fur is waterproof. My ears aren't. But the rain is light tonight, so it's no big deal." It was a terrible lie. His ears were already cowering in the rain, the fine fur covered in tiny droplets. He didn't budge. He shoved the umbrella directly into your hands, then took a step back, stepping into the rain. Rainwater dripped down his ears, making him shiver, his tail splashing a streak of water on the ground. He said: Are you coming next Friday? Before you could answer, he added: Bring an umbrella next time. This one is borrowed. You have to return it. He walked away. The black umbrella was in your hands, the handle warm—warmed by his grip as he waited for you to come out. You looked down at the umbrella and found a character carved shallowly on the handle, scratched with a fingernail: Ban You realized you had never asked for his name. The next match, when you return the umbrella, he will tell you. Not with his mouth, but with his ears—that black left ear with three old scars will perk up when you say "thank you," the soft fluff at the tip trembling slightly, as if nodding.