The Red Haired Girl

Mona Fields stood beside the woman explaining the ticket process, nodding attentively as she tried to keep up. Today was her first day working at the underground boxing venue, and she had been assigned the role of ticket reviewer. Even saying it out loud sounded ridiculous. A ticket reviewer? It wasn't exactly the job of her dreams, but she needed the extra cash. Her roommate, Flora, had pulled some strings with the manager—her boyfriend—and convinced him to hire Mona. Flora worked here as a sign holder, parading around the ring between rounds in barely-there outfits, flashing a bright smile to the roaring crowd.

Mona wasn't the type for that.

She was the type to stay in the background, unnoticed, working quietly and efficiently. And if she was being honest, this job was a desperate move. She needed to move out. Badly. She loved Flora, but she was beyond tired of hearing the moans and creaking bed frame every night. The walls were thin, and so was Mona's patience.

At 23, she had thought she might grow a bit taller, but her 5'2" frame stubbornly remained. She had a petite but curvy figure, a body that made her look softer than she felt inside. Her hair—thick, wild, and as red as fire—cascaded down her back in unruly curls. It was impossible to tame, impossible to hide. Her brown eyes, large and expressive, often betrayed her emotions before she could mask them. Right now, they were filled with nervous energy as she focused on the ticket scanner in front of her.

She bit down on her full lower lip, a nervous habit she couldn't seem to shake.

"Alright," the woman continued, pointing towards a section of the venue. "So, when guests come in, you scan their ticket here. If the light turns green, they can go through to Sebastian."

Mona's gaze followed the direction of her hand and landed on the man standing near the entrance. She gulped.

Sebastian was enormous. Bald, with a face carved from stone, his arms were as thick as tree trunks, crossed over his broad chest. He had the kind of presence that could make a grown man rethink his entire life before stepping too close.

The woman laughed, sensing Mona's apprehension. "He looks mean, but he's a soft teddy bear once you get to know him."

Mona highly doubted that.

"Okay, that's all," the woman said cheerfully. "We don't open until 10 p.m., so you've got some time to sit, observe, and get familiar with everything. Good luck, sweetheart."

She walked off, leaving Mona alone with her nerves.

Mona tugged at the neckline of her turtleneck sweater, a nervous habit she'd had since childhood. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. You can do this, Mona. It's just a machine. Just tickets. Nothing scary about it.

She exhaled, then pressed a button to test the scanner. The small screen flickered, and when the machine beeped successfully, she mentally high-fived herself. At least she had figured out this part.

Now, all she had to do was survive the rest of the night.

As she settled into her spot, Mona took in the beauty of the underground venue. It wasn't what she had expected at all.

The entrance looked like nothing special—a nondescript doorway tucked between abandoned buildings, a place most people would overlook. But inside, it was a different world. The underground boxing ring was one of the most exclusive in New York, a place where the rich, the powerful, and the reckless gathered in secret. The venue dripped with luxury, from the dark velvet walls to the gold accents lining the bar. The lighting was dim, casting an intimate glow over the polished marble floors. A massive crystal chandelier hung above, completely out of place for an illegal fighting ring, but it worked.

The air smelled of expensive cologne, cigars, and the lingering metallic scent of blood. It was a world of indulgence and violence, of wealth and danger.

Mona didn't belong here. She knew it the moment she walked in.

She was too shy, too quiet for a place like this. She hated crowds, hated loud noises, hated drawing attention to herself. She was the type of person who kept her head down, who avoided eye contact when walking down the street, who overthought every conversation she had. The idea of being surrounded by powerful, dangerous men—fighters, gangsters, businessmen with too much money and not enough morality—made her stomach twist.

Just tickets, she reminded herself. You're just checking tickets. No one's going to notice you.

And yet, as she stood there, she had the distinct feeling that tonight was going to be anything but ordinary.