The sound of leather hitting flesh rings in Gale's ears no matter what time of day or night it is.

"Ladies and gentlemen, for our third fight of the evening, the Hob Boxing Club is proud to present tonight's heavyweight match..."

But it is especially loud here, tonight, as it always is when he enters this cheap, dingy boxing club in a basement in the cheapest neighborhood in town. They call it District Twelve, on account of it's number of bums and losers. No one in District Twelve is exactly a zero, a nothing, but none of them are greats either. They're the ones and twos of humanity. So, District Twelve it is.

"And fighting Southpaw, a regular on this famed stage..."

Gale rises to his feet and begins bouncing from his left foot to his right. This old boxing ring is far from a 'famed stage,' but they pay his rent. Or, at least, they pay part of it. Boxing in the cheapest neighborhoods isn't exactly the most lucrative of business plans. He shrugs off his robe and cracks his neck on both sides. The greasy man across from him smiles a disgusting, toothless grin that makes Gale's stomach go bust. This isn't going to be a clean fight; this man isn't going to fight fair. They call out Gale's name, his fighting name, The Hunter, and the crowd greets him with mixed reception, something he's used to by now. People place their bets on his body, his stamina, his speed, like he was some sort of racehorse, all the while leaving Gale to remind himself why he loves this sport. It's a sport of survival. A sport of living. And Gale likes it, no matter what happens with the dark bookies waiting in the corners of the Boxing club, waiting to collect from the poor suckers who dare bet against The Hunter.

The young boxer meets his opponent in the center of the ring and feels the sole of his old boxing boot give out. Damn. He doesn't have the money for a new one. Shrugging it off, he bites down hard on his mouthguard as he levels an icy stare at the man across from him.

"Gentlemen," the referee begins, "I want a good, clean fight. You hear that bell, you stop swinging, you got it?"

Both fighters nod their assent, though Gale isn't sure the other man means it.

"Tap gloves."

They do.

"And...Fight."

And they do.

Gale's instinct is right; this man does not fight fair. The first three punches are cheap shots. Gale keeps his arms up, finding his only stance is the defensive kind. Right, left, his footwork is sloppy, but it's keeping him upright and standing. He gets pummeled to the ropes, but manages to duck under a left swing to the head and maneuver his way back to the center of the ring. That sound amplifies in his ears louder and louder and louder. Leather against skin. Skin against leather. The crowd. The roar. The crinkle of cash from the bookies. Leather against skin. Skin against leather. His skin busting. The trickle of blood down his eye. Leather against skin. Skin against leather. But this time it's his glove, it's his opponent's skin. Head. Head. Body. Head. Body. Head. Head. Body. Body. Head.

Noise. Noise. Noise.

And then, like the voice of God looming above him:

"One...Two...Three... He's out! K.O."

Knock Out. There's been a knock out in the ring. And, when Gale comes up for air from his fighting-induced haze, he realizes that he is the one still standing. The referee raises his glove in the air, and Gale feels the rush of winning fill his veins. He draws a deep breath in and listens to the unsavory crowd receive his win with mixed energy. He is not the only winner tonight, and the man at his feet is not the only loser. In the Hob, there is so much underhanded, unsavory work to be done, there are more winners and losers in this room than just the two-rate fighter known as The Hunter.

And, boy, does Gale know it when he finally approaches Sae for his cut of the night's profits.

"Well, let's see," the little old woman says, pulling out a pencil and pad from her drawer, "Winner's earnings tonight are one hundred and twelve dollars."

Gale knows that isn't true.

"Last week, it was-"

She holds up an easy hand to stop him.

"That was then. This is now. And this is one hundred and twelve dollars."

Reaching his taped and swollen hand out for the cash, Gale receives a slap from the hand of the old woman.

"Not so fast, kid," she begins, frantically scribbling something with her score pencil, "It's fourteen dollars for marquee listings, and twenty-eight for overhead. Of course, there's nine for my promoter's fee, and the deduction for ending it before you got to the third round-"

Gale's eyes widen as he slams his hands on Sae's desk.

"You're charging me for winning now?" He nearly shouts.

She shrugs her sweatered shoulders and types into her calculator.

"Brings you to sixty-one dollars."

He should have expected it. Of course they're going to cheap him out of every penny; he has been stupid for thinking that he might actually, once in a while, get the money that's due him. His teeth ache from grinding them so hard; his jaw throbs and throbs and throbs as he exerts more and more energy attempting not to go across that table and use the fists he's so deft at using to get the money they owe him. Sae half-interestedly offers up the cash to him.

"You want it or not?" She asks, quirking her eyebrow.

Breathing loudly through his teeth, Gale pulls the wad of bills from her hand and counts them greedily. Sixty-one. Just like she said. He shoves it into his pockets.

"When's my next fight?" He asks.

She pretends to look at the calendar hanging on the wall above her stapler, but he knows she's just screwing with him now. She knows that he needs her more than she needs him. There are more than enough scrappy kids looking to get into the boxing game, but not many promoters looking for a Southpaw getting up in age like him. He's twenty-two. That's a damn old boxer in this part of town.

"I'll give you a call. Pretty boy Odair's on the boards the rest of the week. You know all of the ladies love to see him dance."

The stupid boxer with the pretty footwork who'll wink at any girl who places a bet on him. Gale rolls his eyes. He happens to know for a fact that Odair and the pretty girl from the bait and tackle shop have been playing house for a year now. The girls can place all the bets they want, but Gale's bet will always be that the pretty boy goes home to his missus like always. But he knows, at the same time, that management doesn't care who Odair goes home with as long as he comes back the next day for his twelve-thirty a.m. match.

"Gimme a call when his pretty nose gets broken."

Gale is walking away when Sae calls after him.

"It has been broken. Twice. And it still looks a hell of a lot better than yours ever has, Hawthorne."

The sound of the older woman's cackling joins the sounds of skin against leather in Gale's head as he steps out onto the dark, chilly streets of his neighborhood.

His feet begin to take him somewhere without his even deciding to move that way. But when he makes the first turn away from his apartment and into the opposite direction, a true smile begins to lift his face.

But, then, he catches his reflection in a window. Shit. Better get cleaned up first.

Music fills Madge Undersee's head. Music and fish, really. But mostly music. Her fingers strike a chord on a new instrument that arrived his morning, and it swirls and spins around the room like leaves on a breeze. The cold outside isn't seeping in through the walls and the heater is tickling her toes with warmth, so when she plays the first few chord on this new piano, she can almost pretend it's fall instead of the dead of winter. Christmas is coming soon, and the pianos and harps and fish are getting lonelier and lonelier by the day.

Her father is the mayor of this town and chooses to live in District Twelve, the neighborhood with the worst reputation and some of the worst crime around. He's lived here Madge's whole life, and he says it helps him feel connected to his people, not the rich elite who live in the gated subdivisions like The Capitol, filled with political scum and snobs of every kind.

Which is all wonderful, Madge thinks. That is, until it comes time for Christmas season and the store is empty. As it turns out, her father's decision to open a high-end music store in the heart of the most crime-ridden, underserved area of town was not the best business strategy. They started to sell fish, too, as a sort of oddity and novelty. Fish and pianos. The brightly colored fish draw in the kids sometimes, but it still isn't enough to keep the place busy. So, Madge spends most of her days alone, listening to Delly prattle and prattle on, playing her music and, of course, waiting for the inevitable moment when Delly finally asks...

"Has Gale come in today?"

She asks that every day. And the answer is always the same.

"No," Madge mutters.

By this time in the evening, she's cleaning the dust off of the pianos in perfectly concentric circles. The white rag becomes gray with every pass over the mahogany stained wood. Then, as always, Delly leans in, her chest pressing against the top of the piano in an excited, overzealous way.

"I'm just asking. I don't think he comes in for the fish, you know?"

Delly winks. Madge rolls her eyes. Every ending, it is the same script, and every evening, Madge answers her in the same quiet, reserved, and nervous way. Being the mayor's daughter didn't exactly give her the most self-confident spark that everyone expects her to have. Instead, she leans back, waits for her turn to speak, and keeps her bravery to herself.

"I wouldn't know, Delly."

The other girl raises a single eyebrow, and Madge repeats herself.

"I wouldn't," she insists.

Tonight, Delly stands and folds her arms across her chest, giving Madge a look caught somewhere between pity and adoration.

"I just want you to know that he's a good guy. And if you were just a little more brave and stopped hiding yourself away all the time-"

Madge slams the wood cleaner down on the register's counter, harder than she anticipates.

"I'm plenty brave," Madge insists, not meeting her friend's eye.

A moment of tense silence passes between them, and finally Delly concedes.

"Alright," she begins, throwing her hands up in surrender before sparing a glance at the clock, "I'm going to start closing up. That okay with you?"

Madge knows why Delly is asking. Gale usually stops in by now. He's late, and Delly is trying to bait Madge into some sort of admission of love or something equally ridiculous. Gale comes around in the evenings sometimes for fish food and bowls and pebbles and things, but that is all. Madge refuses to believe that there could or is anything more than that. No matter how many times Gale hints at it, no matter Delly's insistence, Madge rejects any notion that Gale Hawthorne could be anything but the boy she used to go to school with and the man who now teasingly asks her which color fish like better, purple or blue.

"Yeah. That's fine."

Disappointment beats into Delly like a heavy drum keeping time, but she goes about her duties anyway. First, the locks on the windows, then the curtains. Madge cleans in her particular concentric circles, just as she always does, never faltering and never stuttering. Perfect circle after perfect circle after perfect circle until she's finished with the first piano and moves onto the second.

They work in silence. No humming or chatter. Just the slow and steady sound of the end of the day and the clock ticking by and by. Madge thinks about her work, her mother, anything to distract her from Gale. Anything to remind herself that her friend is not right.

"I'm locking the door now."

Madge flinches when the voice cuts through the room, her wide eyes looking up at her friend.

"What?" She asks, dumbstruck.

Picking up her large ring of keys and shaking them flippantly in Madge's direction, Delly repeats herself.

"I'm locking up," she remarks.

Drawing a large breath in, Madge smiles. Not because she feels happy, but because that's what she's meant to do at a moment like this, she thinks.

"Oh. Sure. Go ahead."

She returns to the piano. The jingle of keys at the safe. Perfect circle. The jingle of keys at the loading dock door. Perfect circle. The jingle of keys at the register. Perfect circle.

The jingle of keys at the front door. Finality. The night is over. Delly doesn't even attempt to hide her disappointment. Watching Gale and Madge talk at night is the highlight of her day. She practically lives for it.

"I'm gonna head home, okay?" Delly prompts.

Madge nods, not looking up from the wood, and her companion reaches to flip the "Yes, we're open," sign to its other side, when a knock resounds against the front door. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Delly quirks an eyebrow and looks up at her friend, awfully pleased with herself.

"I wonder who that could be?" She asks, knowing full well who it is.

It's Gale Hawthorne. Gale Hawthorne is at the door.

Well, here we are! New story! Please review and let me know what you think! Next chapter will be really exciting! Can't wait to hear what you guys think in a review! :)