Boxing, hmm. Ishmael was well familiar with the sorts who hung around London's underground boxing scene, if not the scene itself. He heard about it from Monty, now and again. And Abernathy had used to dabble, hadn't he?
If he'd had a clear head, he might have wondered what this fellow got out of boxing. Did he do it for the cash, the glory, the violence, the exercise, the hell of it -? Was he any good? It didn't look like he'd gotten off lightly, though he sounded decently nonchalant about it, so perhaps it looked worse than it was.
It looked like a lot of blood. An unignorable amount, even for him.
"I'm... not sure that I can, actually," Ishmael offered slowly, his grip, if anything, sinking in even tighter. It was more of a statement or a warning than a threat, however it sounded; he certainly didn't want to kill a - probably a - good guy in an alleyway. He was old enough to know better. Old enough to do better.
But this guy was making it so hard to be good, and Ishmael's throat had gone dry, the thirst pulsing vividly in his head.
If he'd had a clear head, he might have wondered what this fellow got out of boxing. Did he do it for the cash, the glory, the violence, the exercise, the hell of it -? Was he any good? It didn't look like he'd gotten off lightly, though he sounded decently nonchalant about it, so perhaps it looked worse than it was.
It looked like a lot of blood. An unignorable amount, even for him.
"I'm... not sure that I can, actually," Ishmael offered slowly, his grip, if anything, sinking in even tighter. It was more of a statement or a warning than a threat, however it sounded; he certainly didn't want to kill a - probably a - good guy in an alleyway. He was old enough to know better. Old enough to do better.
But this guy was making it so hard to be good, and Ishmael's throat had gone dry, the thirst pulsing vividly in his head.
