We’re close to the river. I could walk home along Randolph Street, but I take the river walkway instead, passing all the restaurants with their strings of lights reflecting on the dark water. I cross over into River North, where the streets are quieter and less brightly lit. I stroll along with my hands in my pockets. It’s a nice area, and I’m 6’7. I’m not worried about getting mugged.

Still, when I hear a shriek, I tense up and look around for the source of the noise.

About fifty yards down the sidewalk, I see a blonde girl struggling with a man in dark clothing. He’s burly with a shaved head, apparently trying to shove her in the open trunk of his car.

The girl looks like she was headed out to a party — she’s wearing a short dress and sky-high heels. The heels aren’t helping her keep her balance while the man bodily lifts her off her feet and tries to throw her backward into the trunk. She gets a hand free and slaps him hard across the face — hard enough that I can hear the blow all the way down the street. He retaliates by slapping her back, even harder.

That really pisses me off. Before I even think what I’m doing, I’m sprinting down the sidewalk, charging right at him.

Just as he manages to shove her into the trunk, but before he can close the lid, I barrel into him from the side. I hit him hard with my shoulder, sending him flying into a wrought-iron fence.

He slams into the fence, but he’s back up on his feet again a moment later, coming at me with both fists swinging.

I don’t actually have all that much experience with fighting — I’ve only been in three or four fights, while Nero’s probably been in a hundred. But I’m a big fucking dude, with a long reach. And you learn some things, with two older brothers.

The guy comes at me in a blitzkrieg, both fists flying. I keep my own arms up, blocking most of his punches at my face. He hits me a couple times in the body, which doesn’t feel great. I watch for an opening. When he sends another wild right cross at my face, I step aside and hit him in the eye with a left. That rocks his head back. He’s still coming at me, but not quite as steady.

He’s got a broad, ugly face. Discolored teeth. His skin is the color of uncooked bread dough. He’s in a rage, snarling at me. Sweating and panting while he keeps throwing haymakers at me that can’t quite reach my face.

I’m not raging. Actually, I feel colder and more calculated by the moment. I feel myself analyzing him like he’s a character in a video game. Looking for the best and quickest way to annihilate him.

I start hitting him again and again in the face and the gut. Each blow feels solid and satisfying, like punching a heavy bag. Every grunt of pain from this asshole gives me a glow of pleasure.