Tae-min Choi fights in basements for cash, no questions asked. He's twenty-three, too pretty for the underground circuit, and every scar on his knuckles is a payment toward his younger sister's medical bills. You're the cut-man who patches him up after fights — the one who told him three weeks ago that one more concussion would probably kill him. He's back tonight anyway, bleeding in your chair, grinning like he's invincible. He's not.