The impact is immediate.

  Yellow and blue neon slicing through the dark.

  Thick smoke clawing at the eyes. Screams that don’t rise—they ricochet, get stuck in iron, and come back dirtier.

  The descent leads into a belly of concrete and metal, and down there the world remembers what it really is.

  A place where only those who can take it survive.

  Wide shot.

  At the center, a massive cage. Thick bars. Mesh stretched tight like skin over bones. A ring that promises no sport.

  It promises damage.

  Around it: mercenaries with hands too steady, mutates wearing pieces of beast, criminals with knife-smiles, junkies with blown pupils and jaws chewing nothing. Bettors clutch damp bills and half-empty bottles like they’re the same thing.

  Smell.

  Old sweat. Sugary alcohol. Burnt flesh from shocks and friction. And underneath, deeper… animal adrenaline, the kind that tastes like fear and the hunger to see someone break.

  Jason enters the fighters’ area.

  Lean build. Serious face. No show. No theatrical steps. Just him—and a calm that isn’t peace.

  It’s restraint.

  He moves like someone who decided hours ago.

  Reactions hit immediately.

  A guy with bull horns snickers, spits on the floor.

  “Who’s this kid? Get lost or something?”

  Another grins, crooked teeth flashing.

  “Michael bringing interns now?”

  Jason doesn’t answer.

  He sits on a bench. The metal is cold through the fabric. He rests his forearms on his thighs, like at the gym before a set that wrecks you.

  Closes his eyes.

  Breathes slow.

  One. Two. Three.

  Each breath is a brake pulled with precision, not an attempt to calm down. He holds it in. Keeps it leashed.

  Up high, in the darkest stands, there are different eyes.

  Not the crowd’s.

  An elegant figure in a white suit. The fox mask is offensively clean, out of place in that filth. Beside him, a man with black lenses, still as a shadow with muscles.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The man with the lenses whispers something.

  The Fox tilts his head just a fraction. Minimal. Enough.

  Like a click.

  ---

  Locker Room

  Michael doesn’t waste time on comfort.

  No encouragement. No “go have fun.”

  Just truth, chewed dry.

  “No one here is your friend.”

  Jason nods, barely. Nothing else needed.

  Michael goes on, voice low, flat, but full.

  “And if you win too fast… they’ll understand.”

  Jason glances sideways and hints at a smile. Not joking.

  Sarcasm stuck to him like a scar.

  “So I’m supposed to win ugly?”

  Michael cuts him down with a look, never raising his voice. A stare that slices.

  “No.”

  Then the real order. The heavy one.

  “Win without looking like a god.”

  A beat.

  “At least… for now.”

  Jason nods.

  He wraps his hands. Pulls the tape with precision. Loop after loop, until it’s just right. Tight, but not too much.

  Like a leash.

  For an instant, his eyes glint.

  A brief flash. Dangerous. Like something inside slammed against his ribs, trying to get out.

  Then everything settles.

  Or at least… it looks that way.

  ---

  Announcement

  The announcer yells like he’s selling meat at a street market.

  “No weapons!”

  The crowd erupts in a filthy laugh, thick with phlegm and money.

  “Other than that: no rules! You can use powers and superhuman abilities if you’ve got them!”

  Whistles. Screams. Fists pounding the grates. The metal vibrates, the cage answers, like it’s already tasting the chaos.

  “The match ends when one can’t continue!”

  A sly grin, clever-animal style.

  “No killing… but if it happens…”

  Theatrical pause.

  “…too bad!”

  The crowd laughs.

  And right then, at the edge of the cage, two staff members drag a body away.

  They don’t “help.”

  They drag.

  A huge fighter, half-naked, covered in bruises. His face is a swollen mask, one eye shut. From his mouth, saliva mixed with blood drips in a thin stream, like a busted faucet.

  His head bangs against the steps.

  Thonk.

  Thonk.

  One grabs him under the arms, the other by the ankles, hauling him like a soaked sack.

  The man lets out a low, involuntary sound.

  Not a moan.

  A reflex.

  Someone in the stands yells, thrilled:

  “Come on! Get up, fucker!”

  Another laughs, a bill pinched between his fingers.

  “He’s not going home.”

  The announcer doesn’t even look at them.

  Keeps smiling, mic at his mouth, like it’s all part of the show.

  Something tightens in Jason’s throat.

  A dry knot. Like a hook yanked from the inside. His breath shortens by half a beat, and for a moment he feels his body wanting to move on its own.

  Anxiety.

  Not the kind that freezes you.

  The kind that tightens and sharpens.

  The kind that puts a knife in your hand and whispers: use me right.

  —

  Silence.

  One second.

  Then—

  …

  Pistol Boy.