[… Jason stands still.]

  He breathes hard. Chest rising and falling like a beast held on a leash by two shaking hands.

  Inside, one sentence.

  Dirty. True.

  I did it… fuck.

  The arena explodes.

  “WOOOOOOW!!!”

  Screams. Applause. Desperation. Money thrown in the air. Curses spat into the smoke. Some laugh, some swear, some just stand there with their mouths open, like they just watched a car crash in slow motion.

  Jason is still there.

  Not posing.

  Just… still.

  Under the filthy lights, his silhouette looks too calm for what he’s done.

  Up in the dark stands, a figure in a white suit tilts the fox mask slightly.

  He doesn’t clap.

  Doesn’t move.

  He watches.

  His voice is calm. Almost amused.

  “Who’s that?”

  Beside him, a man with glasses checks a display, scrolls a line, like he’s reading some trivial detail.

  “Registered as… Pistol Boy.”

  Under the mask, a thin smile.

  “…Interesting.”

  He keeps staring at Jason for a few more seconds.

  Then inclines his head toward the man beside him.

  Whispers something.

  You can’t hear it.

  But the tone is the kind used to make decisions.

  The man with the glasses nods.

  Once.

  The fox-masked figure turns.

  And walks away.

  With the same calm you have when you enter a room already knowing it isn’t yours yet…

  but soon will be.

  ———

  A few days later.

  Pain arrives before the light.

  Bathroom half-dark, like even the bulb is afraid to look at him. Cold tiles. Fogged mirror. The smell of disinfectant and damp that sticks in your throat.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Jason is a walking disaster.

  Bruises everywhere. Patches of bandages. Wraps squeezing shoulder, ribs, hands. One shoulder pressed to the wall to keep from falling. One hand shaking without permission, like his body is still arguing with itself.

  He plants himself in front of the toilet, bent forward, breathing like he’s pulling max deadlifts.

  Every inhale scrapes.

  Every exhale makes his core tremble.

  His fingers jitter. One hand tries to “hold on”… and his forearm locks up with a pain so sharp he sees black for a second. Not a lingering ache.

  A hit.

  He clenches his teeth. His face twists into something desperate and ridiculous at the same time, like even his ego ended up on crutches.

  He mutters, with hate and honesty.

  “Fuck, that hurts… I can’t even hold it in my hand…”

  Pause.

  A crooked half-smile. Bitter. Almost proud, despite everything.

  “…but I won.”

  Pizzeria — Evening

  Old school.

  Faded neon. Greasy tables. Oil-stained paper placemats. The clatter of dishes, distant laughter, a TV on mute spitting silent images like a dead eye.

  In a quiet corner, Michael is comfortable.

  Relaxed.

  Like he could sleep through a bar fight and only wake up to finish his cigar.

  Jason, instead, sits stiff—wood and pain. Every movement draws a protest.

  He tries to lift a slice of pizza.

  It shakes.

  His fingers spasm. The hand decides on its own. The slice trembles… then slips.

  SPLAT.

  Pizza on the floor. Crushed. Oil and cheese spreading like a slow mockery.

  Jason blinks, resigned.

  “Fuck’s sake.”

  Michael looks at him.

  Crooked smile.

  He lights his cigar calmly, like he’s starting a private show.

  “You’re in pieces like a pack of crackers left at the bottom of a backpack for months…”

  A slow drag.

  “Puffed up like a freshly filled cream puff…”

  Another, more amused.

  “Bruised like a tomato stomped by a herd of cows…”

  He points at Jason’s bandages, one by one, like they’re an installation.

  “…and with all those band-aids, you look like a modern art masterpiece.”

  Jason stares at him, face scrunched, half offended, half defeated.

  “Okay, okay, enough… I get it.”

  Michael chuckles, low.

  “You won a potentially lethal tournament and you can still use the bathroom by yourself…”

  Pause. Drag.

  “I’d call that a success.”

  The sarcasm fades.

  Silence stays.

  Jason drops his gaze. Wiggles his fingers. Tries to make fists slowly, like he needs to feel them for real. Like his body has to confirm it still belongs to him.

  Then he spits the truth, no theatrics.

  “I haven’t exploded in months…”

  Pause.

  “But I feel different.”

  Another.

  “Stronger.”

  He swallows.

  “Like this power… feels more mine.”

  Michael stops laughing.

  His gaze locks onto him. Cold. Present. The look that doesn’t comfort—it measures.

  “At first it’s pure instinct.”

  “Chaos.”

  “A violent force that commands you.”

  Cigar smoke rises slowly between them, a gray line cutting across the dirty table.

  “But the more you grow… the more you learn to command it.”

  Another drag, heavier.

  “And the more you command it… the more it grows with you.”

  He doesn’t raise his voice.

  He doesn’t need to.

  “I’d say you’re at ten… maybe fifteen percent of what you could become.”

  Jason nods.

  Shaking, he finally manages to bring a slice to his mouth. Chews slowly. Eyes fixed ahead, past the faded neon, past the laughter, past the dirty place.

  Like he’s already looking at something that’s coming for him.

  Pistol Boy.