A man steps into the cage.
Lean body. Muscles taut like live cables. His skin carries a faint iridescence, an electric sheen that has nothing to do with the neon.
He looks… charged.
His nickname comes first, like a warning.
The Torpedo.
The announcer screams, voice shredding the microphones.
The crowd answers like a pack.
“Second bout!”
Jason steps into the iron circle without changing expression.
Nose still smeared with dried blood. Low breathing. Hands wrapped.
The other man looks at him.
Doesn’t laugh.
They read each other instantly.
Not a veteran you shut down in three hits.
A problem.
They start circling.
Measured steps. Controlled breath. Loose shoulders, ready.
Smoke slides between the bars like dirty water.
Then the exchange.
MMA style. Clean lines. A jab to gauge distance, a low kick to test, a tight re-entry hunting the face.
Jason blocks. Slips. Fires back.
He moves well.
Too well for an “intern.”
The Torpedo commits.
A punch lands.
ZAP.
The shock rips through Jason like a red-hot spike driven into his chest and hammered down his spine.
Teeth clench. His vision jumps hard, like someone yanked the power from his eyes too.
Second hit.
Low kick.
ZAP.
Worse.
The leg buzzes. The foot almost loses contact with the floor.
Jason gives half a step back and his breath snaps in two, traitor.
Cold sweat on his neck.
Someone in the crowd laughs—but it’s nervous.
Not amusement.
Relief at not being in there.
“Holy shit… that actually stuns.”
The Torpedo shifts tempo.
He’s not looking for a brawl.
He’s looking for contact.
He blocks a punch—
and instead of letting go, traps Jason’s arm.
The grip isn’t strong.
It’s precise.
The hand slides along the ribs.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Closes.
And dumps everything.
ZZZZAAAP.
Jason’s eyes fly open.
Muscles lock like someone pulled wires from the inside.
A violent chill tears through his joints.
His knee buckles.
For a moment the body decides for him.
He’s about to go down.
And there—
Jason wakes up.
Not with a jolt.
Not in panic.
Clear.
I’ve taken too many shocks.
Hands are tingling.
I’m losing feeling.
A clean, surgical thought.
Two more like that… and I’m done.
KO. Frozen. Fried on the floor.
Flash.
The underground.
Michael.
That low voice, no mercy.
“Open.”
“Hold.”
“Let it flow.”
Jason growls.
Doesn’t shout.
Growls.
He rips himself free from the contact like the electricity is an insult.
One step back.
Then—
he opens.
The energy doesn’t explode.
It flows.
From shoulders to arms.
From spine to legs.
Into tendons, reflexes, posture.
The air around him trembles.
Not a detonation.
Presence.
Muscles answer.
Pain pulls back.
Timing tightens.
Jason smiles.
Not wide.
Certain.
The Torpedo feels it.
Half a step back.
Instinct prickling.
Jason goes.
Now the difference shows.
The strikes are faster.
Angles tighter.
The body moves like it finally stopped fighting itself.
Short punches that appear and vanish.
Low kicks snapping rhythm apart.
Feints forcing late reactions.
Not rage.
Control.
CRACK.
Two teeth fly out, white in the smoke, with a spray of blood that vanishes in the air.
The Torpedo staggers.
Jason advances.
Shoulders low.
Eyes lit.
A predator who learned to ration force, not waste it.
The Torpedo charges.
Everything.
The electric punch flares to max.
A desperate choice.
Jason wants it.
He leaves an opening.
An invitation.
The Torpedo bites.
The punch comes.
Jason redirects.
Grabs.
Rotates.
Twists the arm with surgical precision.
And feeds the shock back.
ZZZAAAP—!
The man’s body shorts out.
Eyes wide.
System offline.
Jason doesn’t hesitate.
Full elbow to the face.
Dry.
Final.
The man collapses like an empty sack.
For a second, boos break out—
someone bet wrong—
then applause.
Louder.
Hungrier.
“He’s young… but look at that fucking head.”
“Where did this guy come from?!”
“I’m losing all my money!”
Jason stays on his feet.
Breathing.
The aura settles, but it doesn’t vanish.
It’s there.
Under the skin.
And the cage—
now—
feels too small for him.
Pistol Boy.
