The announcer savors it.

  He doesn’t announce a match.

  He announces a sentence.

  “FINAL MATCH!”

  The crowd moves like a wave—shoving, screaming, hammering the grates. Neon trembles. Smoke opens and closes like diseased lungs.

  And then he steps in.

  Samuel Ghanè.

  Dark skin. Powerful, compact build. No vanity in his movement. Only efficiency. His gaze is cold, clean. The look of someone who doesn’t fight for fun.

  He fights because it’s the one thing he does better than breathing.

  Whispers ripple instantly.

  “It’s him…”

  “He sends people to the hospital.”

  Two spectators talk under their breath, like saying his name too loud brings bad luck.

  “Samuel Ghanè is a legend down here. Never lost…”

  The other shakes his head, already resigned. “That new kid might be good, but against Samuel? No chance.”

  “He’s got monkey genetics, right?”

  “Yeah. That’s the ironic part.”

  A nervous smile. “You don’t expect some monster—and then you see it. Strength, agility, instinct… all on another level.”

  Pause. “Technique and genetics. He uses them like the same hand.”

  The other exhales. “Basically a champion.”

  Then looks at Jason and almost drops his eyes. “Poor kid. Almost feel bad for him.”

  The cage closes.

  CLANG.

  The sound is sharp. Final.

  The fight starts without ceremony.

  Kicks. Punches. Clean blocks. The pace is high from the start—but controlled. No chaos. Just clean violence.

  The crowd screams and the ring vibrates under their feet, like even the concrete is rooting for something to break.

  The intensity spikes.

  Samuel Ghanè stops.

  One clean instant.

  Then he activates something.

  His eyes light up dark orange, like live coals under ash. The air around him changes density. It doesn’t explode.

  It weighs.

  His body shifts tempo.

  He doesn’t look stronger.

  He looks more real.

  Like an internal brake got ripped out.

  A murmur rolls through the crowd.

  “Oh shit…”

  “He’s serious now.”

  Jason takes half a step back.

  Not fear.

  Instinct.

  A strike comes.

  He barely slips it.

  Another grazes his guard and rattles his arm up to the shoulder.

  Jason inhales.

  Once.

  Then he stops too.

  The crowd feels it before they understand it.

  Jason’s eyes change.

  Light orange.

  A thin aura opens around his body, like pressure pushing outward. The air vibrates. Smoke moves against the flow.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Two presences.

  Two pressures.

  The cage feels smaller.

  A charged, unreal beat of silence.

  Then—

  they crash back into each other.

  The fight detonates.

  Blinding exchanges.

  Millimeter dodges.

  Dry blocks that rattle bone.

  Strikes slicing air, missing by a breath.

  Feet sliding.

  Shoulders turning.

  Bodies crossing and separating like blades.

  The crowd loses its mind.

  “WHAT THE FUCK—”

  “THESE ARE MONSTERS!”

  “I HAVEN’T SEEN THIS IN YEARS!”

  Every impact hits heavier than the last.

  Every exchange raises the ceiling.

  Michael watches.

  Standing.

  Silent.

  His eyes track every movement, every micro-error, every choice.

  Jaw clenched.

  But underneath—

  a thin thread of pride.

  Samuel smiles.

  Not wide.

  Predatory.

  And pushes harder.

  His aura expands.

  Pressure climbs.

  His body begins to change.

  A veil of fur creeps over his arms.

  His posture drops half a centimeter—denser, more animal.

  Behind him, a tail takes shape, like an insult to logic.

  Speed spikes.

  Jason gets overwhelmed.

  One hit.

  Then another.

  Heavy.

  Crushing.

  Not just strength—mass, instinct, brutality.

  Jason blocks, but gets driven back.

  Slips, but still gets clipped.

  The body holds…

  but the head starts chasing.

  Like the floor tilts under his feet.

  A clear, bitter thought:

  At that level… I’m not there yet.

  Another blow bends him.

  Another slams him into the mesh.

  Breath snaps.

  Arms burn.

  Samuel is a beast now.

  Jason isn’t.

  Not yet.

  In the crowd, Michael’s fists clench.

  No words.

  Just hard focus.

  Fuck no…

  Too soon…?

  A clean hit.

  Jason staggers.

  Vision tunnels.

  And then—

  the world fractures.

  The alley.

  The blood.

  The explosion.

  And Jason drops back into the trance.

  His right arm swells visibly. Muscles bulge, granite-thick, like flesh being melted down and rebuilt in real time. Veins rise, aggressive.

  Then they light up.

  From shoulder to clenched fist, a blazing orange pulse synced to his heartbeat.

  The air heats up.

  Distorts.

  A subtle shimmer, like heat on asphalt—

  inside an iron cage.

  The crowd cuts out.

  Total silence.

  Neon, smoke, screams—everything dies for one second.

  Someone whispers, and it sounds like a filthy prayer.

  “What’s happening…?”

  Samuel feels it before he understands it.

  Pure instinct.

  He stops.

  Cold sweat. Shoulders tightening. Pupils narrowing.

  In that moment, he doesn’t sense a punch.

  He senses death.

  The kind that leaves no story behind.

  Jason is a breath away.

  Set. Ready to throw.

  A strike that could turn the cage into a crater and erase every rule, every return, every way back.

  The punch launches.

  A flash.

  Then stops.

  Frozen a few centimeters in.

  Like a valve slammed shut inside his own tendon.

  A breath.

  His eyes clear.

  Control.

  Then Jason strikes with the other arm.

  The left.

  A dry hook to the face.

  Samuel takes it clean—and for the first time, his balance steps back without consent.

  Jason doesn’t stop.

  Combo.

  Short strike. Another. Fast sweep. Torso rotation, like Michael taught him—don’t waste anything.

  Finish.

  A rising kick to the chin.

  The sound is brutal.

  Samuel lifts.

  Not high.

  Just enough to make everyone understand that gravity, down there, isn’t guaranteed anymore.

  He lands heavy.

  Slams.

  Stays down.

  And for a moment, Michael’s shadow seems to overlap the blow—an invisible signature.

  Jason stands still.

  Pistol Boy.