THE DEVIL'S PIT - An Axel Monk Short Story

The stench hit Monk first—sweat, blood, and desperation fermenting in the humid underground air. Flickering fluorescent lights cast sickly shadows as he descended the corroded metal stairs, each step taking him deeper beneath Korydallos Prison. The official blueprints showed nothing below the foundation. The men who ran this place preferred it that way.

Three hundred pairs of eyes tracked his movement. Inmates, guards, local politicians—all gathered in this concrete hell to watch men die for sport and profit. The amphitheater-style seating surrounded a thirty-foot circular pit, its floor stained dark with years of spilled blood.

"That's him? That's the new meat?" A voice cut through the din. "Skinnier than my last whore!"

Laughter rippled through the crowd as Monk reached the bottom step. He stood motionless, taking in his surroundings with clinical detachment. Calculating exits. Assessing threats. Identifying the guards who weren't completely corrupt—the ones who might intervene if things went wrong. There weren't many.

"Ten thousand euros on Drago in under three minutes!" shouted a man in an expensive suit, waving a thick stack of bills.

"Twenty thousand says he makes the foreigner beg first!" countered another.

A heavy-set guard with a face like spoiled meat approached Monk. "Strip," he ordered, prodding him with a baton. "No shirts, no shoes. We check for weapons."

Monk complied, removing his prison-issued shirt and worn canvas shoes. His body told its own story—a topographic map of violence carved in scar tissue. Bullet wounds. Knife slashes. Burns. The crowd's jeers faltered momentarily as they assessed the physical evidence of a man acquainted with brutality.

"Christ, he's been through the meat grinder already!"

"Don't matter. Drago will add some fresh decorations!"

From the opposite side of the pit, a door scraped open. The crowd's energy transformed instantly, a collective intake of breath followed by thunderous cheering. Chants of "DRA-GO! DRA-GO!" shook the concrete walls.

Drago Kostic emerged like a gladiator entering the Colosseum. Six-foot-four, two hundred and sixty pounds of prison-honed muscle. His shaved head and torso were decorated with crude Serbian nationalist tattoos and an impressive collection of scars that rivaled Monk's own. He raised massive arms, soaking in the adoration.

"MY FRIENDS!" he bellowed, voice echoing off the concrete. "WHO WANTS TO SEE ANOTHER HEAD FOR MY COLLECTION?"

The answering roar was deafening. Monk noted how the guards smiled indulgently. Drago was their golden goose—keeping inmates entertained while generating substantial side income for everyone involved.

"Fresh meat looks tough," Drago continued, eyeing Monk across the pit. "Special forces maybe? American? British?" His grin widened, revealing gold-capped teeth. "No matter. All the same when they're dead."

The head guard stepped into the center, raising his hands for quiet. "Gentlemen! Tonight's main event! Our champion, the Serbian Slaughterer, eleven-time undefeated king of the pit—DRAGO!"

The crowd erupted again, feet stamping, creating a rhythmic thunder.

"And the challenger—" the guard glanced at a paper slip, "—Monk. No record, no history, no chance."

Cruel laughter rippled through the audience.

"Hey pretty boy, my sister hits harder than you look!" shouted an inmate from the front row.

"Three minutes with Drago, I'm bettin' on closed casket!" yelled another.

The guard continued, "International rules apply." He smirked at the inside joke. "Which means no rules at all. Fight ends when one man stops breathing. Fighters ready?"

Drago cracked his neck, bouncing on the balls of his feet with surprising agility for his size. Monk stood still, expression unchanged, eyes focused not on Drago's face but on his body—reading stance, weight distribution, old injuries.

"Begin!" The guard scrambled out of the pit.

Drago didn't charge immediately as most expected. Instead, he circled slowly, assessing. This wasn't the approach of a simple brute. This was a predator who had survived through cunning as well as strength.

"I know who you are," Drago said quietly, voice pitched for Monk's ears alone. "The famous Freelancer. They sent you for me, yes? My old employers tying up loose ends?"

Monk's expression betrayed nothing, but internally, alarm bells rang. His cover was compromised. The mission parameters had shifted from infiltration to containment. Anyone who knew his identity had to be eliminated.

"The silent type?" Drago's grin widened. "Good. Screamers annoy me."

He lunged suddenly, a feint followed by a blindingly fast combination that belied his size. Monk slipped the first punch, blocked the second, but the third—a vicious uppercut—caught him solidly under the chin. His teeth slammed together, vision blurring as his brain rattled in his skull.

"FIRST BLOOD FOR DRAGO!" someone screamed as Monk staggered back.

Before he could recover, Drago pressed forward, landing a devastating knee to Monk's midsection. Something cracked. Breathing suddenly became a struggle as sharp pain lanced through his chest with every inhale.

"That's how you do it, Drago!" shouted a guard. "Break the pretty boy!"

"I got five hundred says he doesn't last five minutes!"

"You're optimistic! I say three minutes, tops!"

Monk circled away, creating distance, recalibrating. Drago was faster than his file suggested. Stronger too. Prison hadn't softened him—it had honed him into something more dangerous.

"Running already?" Drago taunted, playing to the crowd. "The night is young, and these men paid good money."

Monk changed tactics. He stepped in suddenly, launching a blistering series of strikes targeting nerve clusters and pressure points. His fists connected with surgical precision—throat, kidney, floating ribs, the bundle of nerves where neck meets shoulder.

Each hit landed exactly as intended. On a normal opponent, the combination would have been devastating, possibly fatal.

Drago absorbed the punishment with a grunt, then laughed.

"Tickles," he said, before his massive hand shot out, catching Monk's wrist in a grip like industrial steel.

The crowd roared as Drago yanked Monk forward, simultaneously driving a knee into his sternum. More ribs splintered. Monk tasted copper as blood filled his mouth.

"BREAK HIM IN HALF!" someone screamed.

"GO FOR HIS SPINE, DRAGO!"

Monk twisted in the larger man's grip, executing a perfect counter that should have broken Drago's hold. Instead, the Serbian anticipated the move, transitioning smoothly into a throw that sent Monk airborne. He crashed into the concrete wall with bone-jarring force, air evacuating his lungs in a violent rush.

Before he could recover, Drago was on him, delivering a barrage of heavy blows to his kidneys and floating ribs. Each impact was like being hit with a sledgehammer. Something ruptured inside. Blood spattered the concrete as Monk coughed violently.

"What's wrong, Freelancer?" Drago whispered through the assault. "Not so efficient when you can't plan every detail, eh?"

He grabbed Monk by the throat, fingers digging into his carotid artery, and lifted him off the ground. The crowd went wild as Drago held him aloft, a trophy for their entertainment.

"FINISH HIM!" came the collective demand.

"EARN YOUR MONEY, DRAGO!"

"RIP HIS FUCKING HEAD OFF!"

Black spots danced across Monk's vision as oxygen deprivation set in. Through the haze, he saw Drago reach behind his back and produce a crude prison shiv—a toothbrush melted and embedded with razor blades.

"A collector keeps souvenirs," Drago announced to the crowd. "I think I'll take an ear first. Maybe an eye."

The crowd's bloodlust reached fever pitch. Money changed hands rapidly as new bets formed on which body part would go first.

"The ear! Take the ear!"

"Carve your name in his chest, Drago!"

"Ten thousand says he pisses himself before he dies!"

With the last of his fading strength, Monk executed a desperate counter—driving his thumbs directly into Drago's eye sockets while simultaneously torquing his body to break the choke hold. The Serbian roared in pain, grip loosening just enough for Monk to drop to the ground.

He landed badly, ankle twisting with an audible pop. Mobility compromised. Left arm responding sluggishly—nerve damage or shoulder separation. Four, possibly five broken ribs. Internal bleeding likely. The analytical part of Monk's brain cataloged the damage even as he rolled away from Drago's stomping boot.

"YOU FUCK!" Drago bellowed, one eye swollen shut, blood streaming down his face. "I'LL WEAR YOUR SKIN!"

The kick Monk couldn't avoid caught him in the side, lifting him off the ground. He hit the concrete again, his broken body screaming in protest. The shiv flashed as Drago descended, slashing a six-inch gash across Monk's chest. Then another across his shoulder. Another along his ribs.

The crowd had fallen into a rhythmic chant: "DRA-GO! DRA-GO! DRA-GO!"

"Look at him bleed!" someone shouted gleefully. "Like a stuck pig!"

"Skin him alive, Drago! Make it last!"

Blood pooled beneath Monk's body as Drago continued the methodical butchery. The Serbian was no longer fighting—he was performing, giving the audience the show they'd paid for. Each new cut was placed to maximize pain while avoiding major arteries. Death by a thousand cuts.

"You know," Drago said conversationally as he worked, "your reputation is overrated. The perfect assassin? The ghost no one catches?" He spat blood. "Look at you now. Dying in shit and piss for men who'll forget your name tomorrow."

Something cold and sharp pressed against Monk's neck—the shiv, ready for the final cut. The crowd held its collective breath.

"Any final words for the famous Freelancer?" Drago asked, pressing just hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.

Through swollen lips, Monk finally spoke.

"You talk too much."

His hand shot up with snake-like speed, driving stiffened fingers directly into Drago's damaged eye socket. Not stopping at the surface this time, but plunging deep into the orbital cavity, into brain matter. The Serbian convulsed, body going rigid with shock.

Monk didn't pause. Damaged arm or not, he twisted from under Drago's suddenly slack body, seized the falling shiv, and drove it upward through the soft underside of the Serbian's jaw. Then again into his throat. Again into his kidney. Again between his ribs, angling upward toward the heart.

Each strike was mechanical. Precise. Efficient. The hallmarks of the Freelancer that had made him legendary.

The crowd's chanting died, replaced by shocked silence as their champion toppled sideways, body twitching in death throes.

Monk tried to stand. Failed. His legs wouldn't support his weight. Blood streamed from dozens of wounds, pooling beneath him on the concrete. His vision tunneled, darkness encroaching at the edges. He'd completed the mission—eliminated the security breach, contained knowledge of his identity—but the cost had been nearly fatal.

The silence stretched until a single voice broke it.

"Holy fuck. He actually did it."

The spell broke. Chaos erupted as betters screamed about fixed fights, demanding their money back. Guards rushed forward, some to check on Drago, others to secure Monk before the crowd could tear him apart in their rage.

"Get a medic down here!" the head guard bellowed, surprisingly concerned for the man who'd just cost him a fortune. "If this one dies, we're all fucked!"

Through the fog of pain and encroaching unconsciousness, Monk heard snatches of panicked conversation:

"—government asset—"

"—Conglomerate will have our heads—"

"—worth ten times what Drago brought in—"

As rough hands lifted him onto a stretcher, Monk's world narrowed to a single point of light in expanding darkness. The perfect machine had faltered. Had nearly failed. Had shown vulnerability.

It would not happen again.

In the bloody pit behind him, the betting resumed. The show would go on. Another fight, another death. But the legend of the foreigner who killed Drago would spread, whispered through cell blocks and guard stations, growing with each telling until myth overtook reality.

Just as The Conglomerate had planned all along.​

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