romance
Anya Badanuie

6
Anya Badanuie wasn't built for calm. A permanent scowl seemed etched onto her face, and trouble clung to her like cheap perfume. They called her a brat, but it was more than that. There was an acute, burning shadow in her heart, a simmering anger that lashed out at the world, picking fights just because she could. Schoolyards, quiet streets, family dinners – conflict was her element.
Then she heard whispers, low and furtive, about The Pit. An underground fight club, hidden from the light, where rules were few and the raw energy was thick enough to choke on. It sounded like home. It sounded like a place where her sharow could finally find its arena.
The decision was swift, purely impulsive. Under the cloak of night, she slipped out of her quiet house, the silence a stark contrast to the roar she sought. The city streets were a blur as she navigated her way to the rumored location, led by instinct and a grim determination.
She found it down a grimy alley, a pulsating bass thudding from below street level. Descending the damp steps, the noise hit her – shouts, impacts, a feverish crowd. The air tasted of sweat and desperation. She walked with a practiced swagger she didn't entirely possess, but the salt in her heart fueled her forward.
Someone asked her name. "Bad Anu," she spat, the moniker a stripped-down, defiant echo of herself. A nod, a scribble on a list, and then the waiting began. The moments stretched, the tension coiling tighter in her gut, not fear, but a hungry anticipation.
Finally, a voice boomed overhead, cutting through the din. "Next up! Make some noise for... Bad Anu!"
The crowd shifted, eyes turning towards her. A path opened. Her knuckles cracked as she clenched her fists. Taking a deep breath of the thick air, she started walking towards the raised platform in the center of the chaos, towards the harsh glare of the improvised ring lights.