Chapter 29: Diesel

The next day, the wardens marched us into the yard. The sun was a white-hot hammer, beating down on the grey concrete and the thousands of desperate men. I felt exposed, my bald head burning under the glare, my chains rattling rhythmically as I walked. As we reached the open area, a group of ten men detached themselves from the crowd. They were nightmares in human skin, their torsos and necks covered in intricate, dark Thai tattoos—yantra designs that were supposed to protect them in battle.

They didn’t speak to me; they spoke to Diesel in a torrent of harsh, guttural Thai. I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the sneers and the way they looked at my curves, their tongues licking their lips. One of them reached out to grab my arm, his fingers digging into my skin.

Diesel didn’t hesitate. He moved with a speed that was almost supernatural.

He stepped in, his body a blur of calculated violence. He launched a devastating lead leg kick that connected with the first man’s ribs with a sickening crack. The man folded like a piece of wet cardboard. Diesel didn’t stop. He pivoted on his heel, his elbow slashing through the air like a blade, catching another attacker across the bridge of the nose. Blood sprayed in a fine, crimson mist, spotting the grey concrete.

It was a masterclass in Muay Thai. He used his shins as clubs, delivering brutal, chopping blows to the thighs and calves of the tattooed men. I watched, mesmerized, as he caught a punch and countered with a lightning-fast knee to the solar plexus, the impact sounding like a heavy bag being hit with a sledgehammer. He was a whirlwind of precision and power. Within minutes, the ten men were groaning on the ground, their faces shattered, their pride broken.

The leader, coughing up a thick glob of blood and saliva, spat at Diesel’s feet. He spoke in Thai, his voice rasping, then looked at me and pointed a trembling finger. “Boss ... want meet you,” he gasped in broken English.

Later, back in the shadow of the cell, I asked Diesel who they were.

“Mr T,” Diesel replied, his expression darkening. “Big boss. Outside ... he own everything. Inside ... he own many.”

Diesel explained, through a mix of broken English and slow gestures, that Mr T had a deep, burning grudge against him. Years ago, Mr T had paid Diesel to throw a high-stakes Muay Thai match. Diesel, possessing a pride that outweighed his fear, had refused to dive. He had won the fight, and in doing so, he had cost Mr T a fortune in gambling debts.

“Why you here?” I whispered, my voice raw.

Diesel looked away, his eyes reflecting a deep, hidden sorrow. “Match ... long time ago. I hit ... too hard. Man ... die.”

He had killed a man by accident in the ring. The tragedy of his past mirrored the wreckage of mine, and in that shared brokenness, our connection deepened. He wasn’t just my protector; he was the only person who saw me as a human being rather than a hole to be used.

Over the next few days, the air between us changed. It became thick with a quiet, electric tension. I found myself watching him constantly—the way his chest rose and fell, the scent of salt and old soap that clung to his skin, the kindness in his eyes. I wanted to give him something. I wanted to return the favor of his protection with the only currency I had left.