asconian's blog

The hallway of Block D was so quiet that every step Rivas took sounded like a solid blow. In Cell 42, Montoya was waiting, seated on the cot, bare-chested, as if he knew exactly what time the officer would arrive.

Both were young, around thirty. Rivas, tall, solid, with broad shoulders and a contained strength that seemed to rest just beneath his skin. Montoya, slightly wider, with the kind of hard, rough musculature forged only on the streets and behind bars. The contrast was perfect: one classic, disciplined; the other wild, unpredictable. Two strong, dangerous men, each confident in what his body could do.

Montoya lifted his gaze and smiled with disdain.

“Officer… are you here for your stroll, or to prove something?” he spat on the floor. “’Cause I’m ready.”

Rivas clenched his jaw. Weeks of enduring provocations, insults, challenges. He knew Montoya wanted a fight. He knew he was being dragged into Montoya’s terrain: inside the cell, off-camera, no rules.

“Do your job, uniformed puppy,” Montoya continued. “Or just come in. But if you do… leave your gun on the table and take off your shirt. Like a man. No authority games.”

Rivas didn’t bite. Not yet.

“I’m not falling for your provocations,” he said, coldly.

“Oh really?” Montoya rose slowly. “Let me warn you: if you win… I stay quiet. I remain here, humiliated.

But if I win… you get me out of this cell. You open the door and give me the freedom I earn with my fists. Agreed or not?”

Rivas knew it was impossible. Kafkaesque. Absurd. But the sentence was a declaration of war. And above all… a direct insult to his authority.

Montoya stepped closer to the bars.

“Come on, brave one. Or are you scared?”. No bollocks?

That was the trigger.

Rivas took two steps back, dropped the radio, unbuckled his belt, and placed his gun on a metal table—slowly, with the calm of a man who had already decided to lose his head.

Montoya spread his arms, almost savoring it.

“That’s it… come here. Strip off that cop costume and fight like what you are: another animal.”

Rivas inhaled sharply. He took off his uniform shirt. His torso, sculpted from years of training, came into full view. Montoya appraised him and smiled, like someone sizing up a worthy opponent.

“Now that’s better.”

Rivas opened the cell. The metallic creak echoed like a warning of tragedy.

And he stepped in.

As soon as the bolt clicked behind him, Montoya lunged.

⸻

THE CLASH

Bodies collided like two blocks of granite. Rivas staggered half a meter from the impact. Montoya grabbed the back of his neck, trying to slam him into the wall, but Rivas blocked, twisted his hips, and slammed him against the cot.

Montoya laughed, even as he fell.

“Well, cop… that’s how I like it.”

The prisoner jumped up, sending a straight punch that split Rivas’ eyebrow. Blood flowed instantly, streaking down his cheek.

The officer responded with a hook to the abdomen, leaving Montoya winded. The prisoner bent, but grabbed Rivas’ wrist and threw him to the ground with an improvised lock.

They rolled, hitting each other like caged animals. Fists, elbows, knees. The wet sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the cell.

Rivas charged, slamming him against the wall. Montoya opened his lip with a brutal headbutt. Rivas saw stars but held on. He lifted him—literally—and slammed him into the bunk, which shook under the impact.

Montoya spat blood. He smiled, even bleeding from his nose.

“You’re tough…”

“You too,” Rivas growled, breathing heavily.

⸻

THE BRUTAL PHASE

The fight became even wilder. Rivas drove a knee into Montoya’s side. Montoya returned one to Rivas’ ribs. Both were gasping, sweating, battered.

Rivas’ chest burned. Montoya’s too. The cell reeked of iron, sweat, and contained violence.

Montoya landed three successive blows. Rivas staggered but stayed standing. Blood dripped from his split eyebrow and broken lip.

“Surrender, cop,” Montoya spat, his voice hoarse. “And I promise I won’t kill you.”

“You can’t beat me,” Rivas ground out. “Not today.”

Montoya tried a hold to bring him down, but Rivas broke it with sheer brute force. He grabbed him by the waist, lifted him, and slammed him to the floor, leaving Montoya breathless for seconds.

That was the beginning of the end.

Rivas mounted him, holding his arm, landing two sharp, precise punches. Montoya still defended, but with less strength each time. Another punch split his eyebrow. Another swelled his cheek. Another left him half-blind with blood.

Finally, Montoya lay trapped under the officer’s weight, gasping, unable to rise. Still, his eyes, full of hatred, kept challenging.

“Finish… if you can,” he spat.

Rivas didn’t need to kill him. He just needed to win.

He grabbed him by the nonexistent shirt collar, lifted him slightly, and growled in his ear:

“You stay in here. I walk out that door. That’s how the world stays. Understood?”

Montoya, defeated, took a deep breath.

And nodded.

For the first time, without bravado.

Rivas straightened, sore, bleeding, but resolute.

He opened the cell. Walked out. Closed it with a slam.

Montoya remained seated on the floor, back against the wall, head tilted back—defeated but alive. Humiliated.

Exactly as Rivas had promised.