Chapter Text
"Hadirin sekalian, selamat datang ke Fight Club."
Kahar gulped, sweat trickling down his face. His shirt a little damp from sharing the basement room with what looks like thirty other sweaty men - some shirtless, some with ragged clothes, and some other looked like ordinary office workers who just got back from work. No matter their background, they're all wearing that same dreadful expression, perhaps from exhaustion.
The basement room was dimly lit, Kahar can barely see each of the other men's faces. The lack of ventilation is choking him a little, such spacious room can be so cramped when you squeeze in thirty men, confined in one place. It makes him a little claustrophobic but he tried to keep his composure.
The announcer's voice echoed, dominating the silence in the room. The voice sounds intimidating, and in a way it had a stimulating effect. Kahar can feel the adrenaline rushing through, begging to be uncaged by the prison that is his flesh. He stood right behind Megat, the man that got him tangled up in this business but it's not like he's complaining. It was Kahar that wanted to be there.
"Kalau kau takut, takyah ikut. Kalau kau ikut, jangan takut."
He recalled Megat telling him that, with a shit-eating grin on his face. Kahar hates that smug look on his face.
The announcer kept talking, establishing the rules. The first two rules; don't talk about Fight Club. Third, the fight is over when someone is knocked out or yells stop. Fourth and fifth, only two people in a fight and one fight at a time. Sixth and seventh, take off your shirt and shoes, fights will go on as long as they have to.
Last but not least, if it's your first time here, you have to fight.
Kahar looked at Megat, he hadn't expect the fight to start so soon. Megat returned the look, giving him a reassuring expression. He inched closer to Kahar's face - so close he can feel Megat's breath trickling his skin.
"Jangan takut. Kau anak jantan kan?"
Again Megat gave him that smug look that Kahar can't stand. Megat pushed him forward, bringing all eyes on him.
Kahar became the center of attention, before another man steps out of the crowd stealing the spotlight. The other man looked skinnier than Kahar, his features are soft but his eyes are strikingly gorgeous. Not a single second was wasted, they both took off their shoes and clothes - setting their bodies free.
Kahar remembered about his square-framed glasses; just before he could take them off, a fist landed on his face making him tumble a little. He quickly gained his balance, though still a bit shocked. He fixed his glasses and managed to dodge just in time when the other man charged at him, ready to launch another punch. Kahar took revenge, punching the other man in his stomach. At this point, he couldn't care less how his face would look. He wants to get absolutely fucked up tonight, and it's not going to be pretty.
The fight had just started, but Kahar can feel his heart tremble already - trembling from the excitement, the thrill of it. His ears were ringing, the crowd shouted and cheered but it's all drowned under the sound of their fists clashing with each other's flesh. Every punch and kick leaving and bruising his body feels like a boulder taken off his shoulders. He felt free. He felt fearless.
The other man grabbed Kahar, flipped him over, completely breaking him apart. Blood was spitting out of his mouth, the iron taste overflowing. Something about it soothes his mind, putting him at ease. His limbs are worn out, but he doesn't want this to stop - not yet. He grabbed the other man, throwing him on the floor. He crawled on top of the man, punching his face relentlessly, giving all his energy into it. He felt sorry he had to ruin the man's beautiful face, but nothing good lasts forever. He was sure he'd be dead after this fight, he couldn't even catch his breath.
The man beneath him lets out a horrid sob, whimpering like a wounded puppy. For a split second Kahar stopped, his heart thumped a little faster. For a moment, a wretched thought clouded his mind. The injured man's hinged breaths and gasps were the only thing his ears caught - a strange feeling arose in his stomach.
At last the other man opened his mouth, letting out a painful, dreadful scream telling Kahar to stop. It must've been forever Kahar thought, there was no clock in the basement room. No windows either, no way of telling how much time has passed.
His ears were still ringing, his body tense and worn out but the adrenaline rush hasn't stopped. He'd heard someone talking, but he couldn't make out the words. His eyes were searching for Megat, but his vision was half blurry - probably from the blood covering his vision. He felt someone's hand lifting up his body away from the man, Kahar turned to face the other man.
Kahar's vision returned finally, he can make out the other man's face now. He had the same voice as the announcer, they must've been the same person Kahar thought. The announcer was smiling ear to ear at him, and probably was praising him too. For the first time, Kahar felt as if his soul and burden has been set free. His body hurts and bruised, but his mind was at peace.
He helped the injured man get up on his feet, praising his performance as he struggled to gain his balance. He hadn't noticed earlier but his glasses were completely destroyed. He put on his shoes and shirt, not minding the glasses.
The entire night was spent with men fighting each other, uncaging their anger and frustrations. The announcer slipped in his speech every now and then, about how if you survive in this fight club you can survive anything out there.
"Tinggalkan semua masalah korang di luar pintu sana, dalam ni hidup kita bebas."
"Apa saja harta korang di luar tu tak ada apa-apa makna dalam ni."
Kahar never saw Megat again that night, except for the one time when it was Megat's turn to fight. Kahar didn't mind, he likes being around him but sometimes Megat treats him like he's a dog - ordering him around like he's Megat's bitch. Kahar never complained, in a twisted way he likes being used like that, maybe he likes the attention. If he had to choose, he'd pick Megat over Reza everytime. But Megat is just a little too much sometimes.
"Apasal dengan muka kau?"
Kahar didn't bother answering, eyes still glued to the beat-up TV playing a morning news show. He never minded to care about these TV programs, with sophisticated men and women dressed in suits, talking about the trendiest home furniture, the stock market or an interview with whoever relevant at the moment. He found them a bit ridiculous, to talk about things that don't really matter. Chasing the material world as if it's important. Sad thing is, the latest fashion trend or the hottest hangout spot or the viral metal cup and money and a penthouse is our core, it's what makes us. We worship it and we don't even realize it most times.
He never had a way to explain it, perhaps he didn't even realize it - but last night has truly opened his eyes.
Maybe that's why humans wake up everyday to this lab race. Maybe that's why Reza still clocks in his shit office job despite complaining about it. Maybe it's the very thing driving Kahar to keep his stress inducing job as a waiter.
Kahar looked over his shoulder to see his brother fixing his tie, looking gentlemanly and nice dressed and professional. For the last seven months Kahar has been leeching off of his brother - at least that's what Reza called it. He would've stayed at his house in Kelantan, but he'd rather not have to see his father's face.
He sipped his freshly made coffee, eyes tailing his brother's movement as he makes a cup of tea for himself. Kahar's wounded lips left a stinging feeling as he drinks in the coffee. Reza simply gave him that worrisome look, wondering what could possibly happen last night.
"Bang, nak tumpang kereta jap," Kahar spoke up finally.
"Mhm," Reza replied, short and simple.
At this hour in the morning, Kahar would have nothing to do until the afternoon hour comes along when the restaurant he works at would open. Usually he'd sleep in, but somehow an invisible force dragged him to stay awake.
He thought a lot about last night, particularly about the man he fought - and ruined the face of. He never learned what his name was, he's not sure if he's going to know any sooner. It seemed like an icebreaking session wasn't part of the club's agenda last night, he doubt anybody uses their real name.
No matter, something awoke inside of him last night. He's not sure what it is, but he's scared of it. The uncertainty of what it is, and what it would be when he finds out, frightened him.
Eventually they stepped out of the house, Kahar in his tattered graphic shirt with an indistinguishable graphic, Reza in his blue striped button up shirt, red tie paired with a pair of dark blue slacks. They entered the car and drove off.
Kahar rode shotgun, his thoughts slipped away as he stared out the window while his brother concentrated on driving. They don't talk as much now, different from years ago. Perhaps as the time floats away, they both changed too. It's just odd that they used to share everything, but all of them seemed so distant - cloudy and foggy in their minds. Kahar wonders sometimes why he can't open up with his brother anymore.
Reza dropped his brother off at a pavement, opposite of a row of shops full of trendy cafes, restaurants and small convenience stores. Reza drove away, not a word uttered - not a goodbye said.
Kahar walked along the pavement, crossing the road to his desired destination. The pathway was slightly dirty, stray cats can be seen sleeping and strutting to nowhere at all. In a way, Kahar thinks he's like those cats - walking, but to nowhere. They're everywhere, but barely noticed.
Finally he stopped by a cafe, its walls covered with lively pastel colors. The interior brighly lit, the design looks modern and sleek. Not many people were there, Kahar saw a man with his laptop open and his back facing the door, two young women sharing a desk, facing each other while they're scrolling through their phones, and another young man, probably the same age as Kahar. His body slouched so low, Kahar is sure that his spine would break into two.
Kahar wasn't sure if he even wants to be there, or if he wants to be anywhere. He's just trying to find something to do before his shift. Maybe waste some money while he's at it. That's the only thing he's ever felt these days. Just numb, empty. All the while he's doing whatever he can to fill that void. The easiest being spending his money on overpriced drink or some useless product online that'll never see the light of day after being used once. Spending money is fun, the brief dopamine you get once you buy something, eager to use it. After that you're empty again, and you spend money again.
Kahar ordered a drink and some pastries to go along with it. The cashier's face looked as dead as his. The cashier's hand lazily tapping a screen, inputting Kahar's order.
While waiting for his drink and pastries to be served up, Kahar looked around the perimeter of the cafe. Scanning other customers' faces, observing their behaviour, what kind of drink they ordered, what kind of outfit were they wearing.
The young man who was slouching earlier finally sat up straight, his face can be seen clearly. Kahar stood there wide-eyed, he recognized that face. A face he'd never forget, especially after last night. The young man's face was badly wounded, with plasters all over his cheeks. His nose had a big open wound, still bright red and purple bruises all over his face.
That was the man he fought last night. Kahar would know, he would remember. He'd recognize that face anywhere.