Malcolm Shepard dropped the book on his desk and looked at the ceiling. He hadn't finished a book since... the fourth grade? Ever? This one, though, he liked. Rose had recommended it; it was about dogs in Alaska, and it was good. Real and honest, unlike lots of the other books he'd heard about. He slid the book into his desk drawer, locked it, and stood up, shrugging his jacket on. 

The mind was a muscle. Malcolm had heard that somewhere. And while he didn't consider himself an idiot- he had his moments at both intellectual extremes- he knew he needed to train his mind if he was going to keep climbing the ladder. Based on the advice he'd received, books seemed like the best way to do that.

Still, he didn't get to where he was by sitting at home and reading. Malcolm flexed his broad shoulders and tried to limber up as much as he could while he was walking. He liked to think that he was making an impact in SoHo, but New York was a big city. He might have a local reputation, but he was hoping for anonymity tonight, at least as far as his new business ventures were concerned . He flagged down a cab, giving the address of a business in Queens.

When he arrived, Malcolm walked past the main entrance and came in through the back door. He was at least a head taller than the bouncer and chuckled slightly as the man got out of his way. The mind wasn't the only muscle. 

There air was hazy with smoke and full with the scents of smoke and sweat. In a room off to the side, Malcolm removed his jacket, tie, and shirt, folding them as neatly as he could. Swapping his pants for trunks, the broad bare-chested man left his shoes off, preferring the feel of fighting with more natural balance. 

Malcolm Shepard had acquired a business, some money, and even a small amount of power. He was reading books and attending meetings. But you can't forget where you came from- and he could feel himself softening around the edges. He propelled himself up to his full height of over six feet, taking a deep breath and noting the way his arms responded as he stretched them to the ceiling. His stomach and chest, while fit, lacked the definition he'd had when he fought here seemingly every weekend. Damn it. He walked slowly out of the room and down the hallway, listening to the chatter of the wealthy men- and occasional woman- who came to bet on the fights. This place was a known recruiting ground for people looking for muscle; it's how he got into the security business. He saw Will as he entered the hallway.

"Shepard! Holy shit, am I glad to see you. Going to put on quite a show, eh my boy? The regulars are absolutely TICKLED to see you back. A few of 'em- Henry? Rawlings?- even changed their plans to see you fight again. Well, son, we're going to give you quite the challenge tonight. One new guy first. Give the crowd a show, you know? But this first guy is just a warm up for Dennis Sullivan.  He's GOOD. The real deal. Irish chap. And what a puncher! Just as good as you and maybe better! That fight's going to set records around here. Well, I'll let you get to it, son. Make me proud tonight!"

"Yea, sure Will. Thanks for letting me back in on short notice. Need the workout."

Will slapped Malcolm on the back, leaving a red handprint on the muscular shoulder, before turning and scurrying towards the ring. Malcolm followed slowly. 

The fights were simple. Bare-knuckle. Five minute rounds until a knockout- or until one man was unwilling to continue. Malcolm had lost two out of his first three fights during that first week years ago when he was trying to learn the ropes; since then, no one had beaten him. Although it had been months since he'd been in the ring. At his peak, Malcolm had been able to knock out several challengers on a night like this. Lots of them were liquored up wannabe thugs, although there were a few genuine fighters. As the lights went out, Malcolm quickly entered the ring and dropped down, cracking his knees and waiting patiently. Will's voice was shouting over the crowd.

"GENTLEMEN! GENTLEMEN! Your attention please!"

The lights went on and Malcolm slowly rose to his full height as a hush fell over the crowd. He smirked. An old trick. 

"As some of you are aware, we have a special treat for you tonight! Tonight, we have a returning champion: one of the best we've ever seen, back to show our current crop of fighters how it's done. But, no doubt, they'll have something to say about that! Welcome back... to Shepard!"

A mix of cheers and chatter rippled through the crowd.

"His first challenger tonight... a new arrival... fighting for the first time this evening... John Riley!

A bald man about twenty entered the ring, glaring at Malcolm. About the age Malcolm had been when he started out here. Before he'd learned how to fight.

The bell rang and the two men approached each other cautiously. Riley tried to throw a couple big punches, but Malcolm easily slid a step back and avoided them, although this drew a sneer from his opponent. 

"Whatcha runnin' for, big guy? Thought you'd be tougher than this."

Malcolm stayed focused, sliding around with his firsts raised. God, this felt good. It'd been a long time. Even if this guy was a joke... his feet still remembered their motions- backing up and advancing like an elaborate dance. After the sixth big swing and miss from Riley, Malcolm made his move. The man had thrown so many big punches that he'd started to leave himself open for a counter attack. Malcolm waited for the next one and, as Riley's fist passed by his head, Shepard made his move- stepping forward and delivering a jab with his left. A second jab followed, connecting with Riley's chin, causing him to raise his hands to his face.  Shepard attacked with his right now, landing a series of body shots against the man's ribcage with his right. Not giving him any time to recover, Malcolm stepped forward again and threw a left hook that dropped Riley to the mat, as cheers erupted around the fighters.

Malcolm knelt down next to him. Compared to the way it was depicted in adventure books, knocking a man out was no simple task. Knocking him down, however, was easier. 

"Stay down, Riley. You're not horrible, but if you keep this fight going I might have to really hurt you."

Riley looked up, blinking, seemingly ready to reply with a string of curses- but the look in Malcolm's eyes caused him to drop his gaze to the floor. He nodded slowly.

Malcolm stood up and cracked his neck as he was announced as the winner and Sullivan made his way toward him. A single look at the man showed he was no amateur like Riley. It was in the way he moved, the way he shifted his weight. As they met in the middle, neither fighter listened to the announcements and waited until the bell rang. Malcolm moved forward this time; his body had remembered the footwork required, but now it was time for the real test. In his experience, anyone could throw a half decent punch with some training. The difference between him and Riley wasn't power, as much as it was resilience: you had to be able to take a punch and keep going. To feel another man's fist crash against your jaw and ignore it. 

The first jab from Sullivan caused Malcolm to backpedal slightly to evaluate. Will hadn't lied: Sullivan was a hard hitter. For the first couple minutes they circled around each other, trading jabs and searching for weak spots. Occasionally, one of the men let loose with a harder punch, but they never really connected- and they were both too quick to keep their guard up for the other to counterattack. 

They continued circling each other for a few rounds, like lions competing for the head of the pride. They traded punches and both men seemed to be wearing down slightly, but no one had been dropped yet. Malcolm had stumbled slightly once, but Sullivan had a small cut over his right eye. They were evenly matched. 

In the sixth round, Malcolm could feel himself getting tired. He wasn't conditioned for a marathon fight; it was time to try and end this. A minute into the round, he saw his chance and didn't hesitate. He saw Sullivan lining up a combination: a few jabs before he went for the knockout. It was a punch that Malcolm wasn't sure he could take- but it was also one that he suspected would leave Sullivan's defenses wide open. Without time to think, he simply reacted.

Malcolm stepped forward with his left foot, driving all his weight behind his right hand. The two men hit each other at roughly the same time. Shepard saw white as Sullivan's first connected with his temple, even as Malcolm's fist plunged into his opponent's face with a sickening crunch. Malcolm dropped to a knee. Sullivan landed on his back. Will was counting. Malcolm rose unsteadily to his feet and heard the bell clang several times. He'd won.

Malcolm closed his eyes, trying to block out the massive, throbbing pain between his ears. He rested his hands on the ropes, breathing deeply and trying to recover. By the time he could stand up and look around, people were starting to file out, and Sullivan was seated on a stool in the opposite corner, surrounded by a couple of his... friends? trainers? Malcolm shakily approached them and spoke.

"You fought a good fight. If you can fight as well on the streets and need work, come to SoHo. Ask around for me."

Malcolm considered adding the fact that he'd been a hair away from losing- and that if Sullivan had been able to continue Shepard almost certainly would have lost, but he decided that that information wasn't necessary to share. Better for his reputation that way.

Malcolm collected some money from a babbling Will, who was raving about the fight and already trying to book him for the next weekend... but Malcolm just smiled, pocketed the money, and kept walking. The money was nice, but it wasn't what he was here for- and if business kept continuing to grow, he didn't expect to be back here for a while. He'd made his point: he could still take a punch. And dish them out, it would seem.

As he emerged onto the sidewalk of the chilled autumn evening, Malcolm rubbed his jaw and started walking until he could catch a cab.