<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.sbs.com.au%2Fguide%2Fsites%2Fsbs.com.au.guide%2Ffiles%2Fstyles%2Fbody_image%2Fpublic%2Fguy-patrick-caged-stills-ali-cevik_0.jpg%3Fitok%3DXmnD22yH%26mtime%3D1470033524&amp;hash=e8a0425097ce60ece05ed437b27cdeef" href="https://www.sbs.com.au/guide/sites/sbs.com.au.guide/files/styles/body_image/public/guy-patrick-caged-stills-ali-cevik_0.jpg?itok=XmnD22yH&amp;mtime=1470033524" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Eymen</a>splashed tepid water over his face to distract himself from the fight to come.<i>I am a broken, dingy man staring into a broken, dingy mirror in a broken, dingy bathroom. </i>He watched the grim smile play over his face, accented by mirrored cracks. The fighting pit adjacent was already thrumming with activity. Spectators looking for a place to sit or stand, bookies taking bets at various odds...business as usual.<br/><br/>"One last time," he told himself. "One more fight, and I give my family a new life." A life far away from Istanbul, and the criminals who poisoned her with their greed. Eymen reached for a roll of dirty athletic wrap, and began wrapping his trembling hands. He was always like this before a fight. Scared...nauseous...uncertain. He hated fighting. He hated that he was good at it. But he loved his family...and they needed the money. So he would fight. He would hurt people, and be hurt in turn. All to please the crowd, and line the pockets of men who had never thrown a single punch.<br/><br/>Blinking away tears of anger and fear, Eymen tightened the wraps on his hands, and clenched his fists to still their shaking. It didn't work. Closing his eyes to the sweat and the pallor on his face, he could took a deep, steadying breath. Then another...and another. With a quiver in his voice, Eymen began to pray:<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">بِسْمِ اللہِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِیْم<br/>
<i>Bismillahir Rahmanir Raheem...<br/>
In the name of Allah, the Gracious, the Merciful...<br/>
<br/>
اَعُوْذُ بِاللہِ مِنَ الشَّیْطٰنِ الرَّجِیْمِ<br/>
<i>Aaoozobillahe minushaitanir rajeem...<br/>
I seek refuge with Allah from Satan, the accursed...<br/>
</i></i><br/>
اَسْتَغْفِرُ اللہَ رَبِّی مِنْ کُلِّ زَنْبٍ وَّ اَتُوْبُ اِلَیْہِ<br/>
<i>Astaghferullaha Rabbi min kulle zumbin wa atoobo ileh...<br/>
I seek forgiveness from Allah for all my sins and turn to Him...<br/>
</i><br/>
اَلْحَمْدُ لِلہِ<br/>
<i>Alhamdo lillah...<br/>
All praise belongs to Allah...<br/>
<br/>
سُبْحَانَ اللہِ<br/>
<i>Subhaan Allah.<br/>
Glory to Allah.</i><br/>
</i>​</div>Eymen slowly opened his eyes. He squeezed his hands gently, feeling the cotton wrap against his fingertips. One more slow, cleansing breath...and Eymen left the musty quiet of the bathroom behind.<br/><br/>Stepping out into the cacophony of the fighting pit, the young Turk was assailed with the smell of sweat, sand, oil, and wood. The hum of the lights played quiet counterpoint to the burbling conversation of the crowd. In the pit itself, Eyman's opponent stood waiting.<i>Ah. I know this one. </i>The woman who fought with great rage, tempered by skill and discipline. She was dressed in a red hoodie this time.<i>Such a small, delicate looking person, </i>he thought, grimly amused. She was a good fighter. He would have to be more careful than usual. He couldn't hold back, and allow her to press an advantage. Eymen would have to start aggressive, and finish the same.<i>Put her down quick. </i>The owner of the pit wouldn't like that very much. That bastard always hoped for a good, long show. Heighten the feelings of the crowd, give them a spectacle, and they would be more eager to part with their money.<i>Fuck him, </i>Eymen thought with a triumphant smile.<i>One last fight. I'll win my way!<br/>
</i><br/>Warm sand shifting beneath his bare feet, Eymen stepped into the pit for the last time. With a nod to Colleen, he waited for the emcee to announce the fight. The announcer played to the anticipation of the crowd, highlighting Colleen's small stature, but ferocious disposition. He was milking the time, hoping to encourage some last minute betting. Eymen relaxed his knees and raised his hands, keeping his grip loose as he was taught. He wouldn't tighten his fist until just before his blow connected, to avoid breaking his hand. The crowd quieted, and Eymen's heart pounded in his ears. This was it. The quiet before the stor--<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">"Fight!"<br/>​</div>His powerful leg muscles propelled him forward instantly. Eymen feinted with his left hand, then turned to deliver a side kick to her knee, twisting his hips to place power behind the strike.<br/><br/><i>One more time!</i><br/><div style="text-align: center">​</div>