Shark Hunting. Spartacus Lily Rizk

«Spartacus to the ring!» echoed the voice of the announcer.

In the middle of the trampled-down field, surrounded by a rough crowd, stood a man nearly two meters tall, warming up his massive frame. He looked to be about thirty-five, with a powerful build and a sharply trimmed beard. Cracking his knuckles, the fighter stared unblinking into the eyes of his approaching opponent. Everything about him screamed predator—merciless, calculated—missing only the tiger's roar.

Across from him stood Spartacus. He was smaller in build, though his muscular body was solid and battle-ready. Shaking out his arms, he clenched his fists and stepped forward. Both men lowered their stance, ready to fight. The makeshift night ring was set far from the city, in a desolate clearing lit by the headlights of surrounding cars. The crowd—mostly men placing bets—buzzed with anticipation. It was nearly dawn. Time for the final round. The fighters already defeated had joined the spectators, their bruised faces watching in silence.

«Ironhead versus Spartacus! Place your bets, gentlemen!» the announcer—also serving as referee—called out. After a brief rundown of the fighters, he reminded the crowd: no rules in this fight.

«Come on, Spartacus!» someone yelled from the crowd. «I’ve got my money on you, bro—don’t let me down!»

Ironhead, Spartacus’s opponent, growled lowly, locking his eyes on him with open disdain.

Spartacus raised his fists to guard his face and began circling slowly, preparing to defend. His opponent mirrored him, following every step. Then, without warning, Ironhead lunged forward, delivering a long, straight punch aimed at Spartacus’s head. The blow knocked him sideways. A sharp pain pierced his eye, and swelling blurred his vision. Before he could recover, he was slammed to the ground—Ironhead’s leg striking the inside of his knee with a vicious snap. Spartacus collapsed.

Ironhead quickly moved to wrap his arm around Spartacus’s neck from behind, trying to lock in a chokehold. But Spartacus turned his head, jamming his face into Ironhead’s side, preventing the squeeze. Reaching behind with one free hand, he grabbed his opponent’s jaw and violently shoved it backward. Ironhead’s grip loosened instinctively.

In that moment, Spartacus pushed off with raw force, twisting out of the hold. At the same time, he landed a brutal punch straight into Ironhead’s liver. Ironhead staggered back, finally letting go.

Without wasting a second, Spartacus spun around and leapt—driving his knee into Ironhead’s jaw.

Ironhead hit the ground. Knockout.

Sitting on the edge of a large, weathered tree stump—once a proud century-old pine—Spartacus stuck a blade of grass between his teeth and stared into the distance. Ahead lay a ravine, and beyond it, a small river flowed. Behind him, across the field, stretched the village where he was born and raised.

His sun-bleached hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead. His broad, tanned back, slick with sweat like oiled leather, shimmered under the soft glow of the rising sun.

After jogging along the dusty, winding paths and working out at his makeshift pull-up bar, he allowed himself a short break. His stomach already grumbled with hunger, but he wasn’t in a hurry to go home. Being alone with nature was his favorite time—especially in the early morning, when everything around was just beginning to wake. No one disturbed his thoughts, his dreams, or his inner peace. He sat there, letting the warm breeze of summer's end cool his overheated body. His mind drifted far beyond the horizon. So lost in thought, he didn’t notice someone approaching.

“How long are you gonna sit here?” came the high-pitched voice of his stepfather’s son, who had waddled all the way to the edge of the village, thighs jiggling with each step.

“What do you want?” Spartacus replied without turning, his deep bass voice clashing with the kid’s squeaky tone.

“Dad’s calling you. Says it’s important.”

“Did his junk car break down again?” Spartacus muttered, swinging his legs down from the stump.

He grabbed his shirt from a nearby bush—where he’d hung it the day before—and slung it over his shoulder, walking slowly toward the river.

“He says it’s urgent business or something,” the boy puffed as he tried to keep up.

“I’ll be there soon, Styopa,” Spartacus replied. “Let me take a dip first. And you better stay out of the water—you’ll sink again.”

“Then teach me how to swim, Spar!” the kid begged, voice filled with frustration.

“Later. I don’t have time now.”

Styopa dropped his head, muttered something under his breath, and trudged back toward the village.

At the riverbank, Spartacus stripped off his old jeans and underwear, wading straight into the water. Reaching the deeper part, he dove in, surfacing with a low moan of bliss. The cool water wrapped around his body, easing the heat from his muscles.

His strong torso, firm muscles, and piercing gray eyes made the local girls go wild. Every one of them wanted his attention. Even some older women longed for him with shameless hunger.

His mother constantly tried to fend off the many women chasing her son, but they always found ways to get close to him.

As if that wasn’t enough, Spartacus was involved in underground fights. His mother often had to nurse him for days after each brutal match. But no amount of tears or threats could make him quit.

“Why the hell did German name you that?!” she’d cry as she treated his wounds. “You trying to die like he did?!”

“Mama, relax. It’s just sport. We’re not really trying to kill each other,” he’d say, trying to calm her down.

And truth be told, it brought in good money. But that wasn’t the only headache. There was also a whole line of women practically following him around. And Spartacus didn’t exactly mind.

Sometimes Vera, a pretty young woman, would ask for help fixing her wiring, and he’d show up. Somehow, things would drag out till morning. Or Klavdia would call—something about a broken table. Same story. He was just too kind to say no.

“You keep it up, and one day your kindness will land you with a baby and a wedding you didn’t plan!” his mother scolded.

“I'm not stupid!” he'd reply, blushing and making a quick exit.

“So, Uncle Pasha—what’s this about?” Spartacus asked, taking a seat at the dinner table. He hadn’t seen his stepfather that morning, so the conversation was pushed to the evening.

“Let’s eat first, then we’ll talk,” the older man replied, scooping up fried potatoes from the big skillet at the center of the table, then reaching for a plate of roasted chicken.

“Can I help Spartacus too?” Styopa asked with his mouth full.

“No, you can't,” Spartacus answered before his stepfather could.

“It’s not about fixing something, son,” the man said, ignoring the boy.

“What is it, then?” Spartacus’s mother asked nervously, glancing at her husband.

“Men’s business, woman. Stay out of it,” he replied curtly.

She sighed, looking at her son. Spartacus lifted his eyes and slowly blinked, signaling her not to worry.

After dinner, they stepped outside. The stepfather sat on a bench by the gate; Spartacus stood before him, ready to listen.

“You still dreaming of getting out of here?” the older man asked.

“So?”

“You’ll never save enough from those street fights for even a one-way ticket, son. And it’s dangerous. Your mother’s losing sleep over you.”

Spartacus frowned, annoyed. Is he giving me a lecture now? He thought.

“So what are you suggesting?”

The man hesitated, choosing his words.

“There’s a very rich man,” he began. “He’s got a daughter. She made him angry, and he kicked her out.”

“You want me to find her and bring her back?” Spartacus guessed.

“No. The opposite.”

“Come again?”

“We need to teach the father a little lesson,” the man said quietly, leaning in.

“What do you mean, ‘a lesson’? Can you just speak plainly for once?”

“She’s here… in the village. He kicked her out, and she ended up… well, in the wrong place.”

“Where?”

“At Volodya’s barn.”

Spartacus stared at his stepfather in disbelief. He’d always thought the man was smart.

“You kidnapped a rich guy’s daughter?!”

“She came on her own.”

Spartacus chuckled dryly and shook his head. “Nope. Not my kind of job. Thanks. I’m out.” He turned to walk away, but his stepfather grabbed his arm.

“Wait. You don’t get it. You’re supposed to take her back and be the hero,” the man said, switching tactics.

Spartacus turned, brow furrowed. “Uncle Pasha… have you lost your damn mind?”

The man sighed deeply, chest rising and falling. He muttered as if to himself, “Fine. Either you do it, or we dump her in the woods and let her figure it out.”

That hit the nerve he was aiming for. Spartacus stood frozen. His gut rejected being part of something so wrong. But his heart wouldn’t let him abandon a possibly helpless girl.

Half an hour later, they arrived at an old house on the village’s edge. Volodya, Uncle Pasha’s nephew, was often away working in Moscow, so the house was usually empty—except when relatives needed to use it. This time, it served a darker purpose.

Spartacus was furious. The first thing he wanted to do was get the girl out. They crept to the barn and peeked through a gap in the wooden door. A dim light flickered inside, casting soft shadows. A girl sat near the wall, hugging her knees. Her black hair was tied in a loose bun, revealing a beautiful round face with large dark eyes and thick eyebrows. She looked no older than twenty-five. Spartacus stepped away from the door and walked quietly toward the gate. His stepfather followed.