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THE STREETS ARE EMPTY,graffiti splashed across the rundown walls of buildings that have stood here for years. Garbage litters the ground, a testament to the decay of this part of town, where junkies and those living on the edge of legality reside. This is a place where the wicked and law-breakers rule—even the police know not to disturb.
I head past the old grocery store, its door adorned with a permanent “Closed” sign hanging behind shattered glass. The windows have been broken in, glass staining the floor, and the shelves are empty, long since stripped of any groceries.
The desolation is palpable as I continue down the street, a distant wailing of a siren far away, but they won’t approach this part. I pull my jacket tighter, trying to ward off the bite of coldness seeping through my bones. Turning left when I spot the alleyway leading down to the warehouse, a mixed sense of nervosity and adrenaline washes over me.
I once vowed never to return. Look at me now.
Only one street lamp illuminates the equally empty alley, and I pass garbage cans and empty graffiti bottles as I approach the very end of it. The door I’m met with looks exactly the same; desolated, decayed, with no signs of anything illegal happening on the inside.
I pull the cap on my head lower, covering half of my face, before I press down the handle. I instantly come to another door hidden behind, a bulky person standing guard in front of it. His muscles are bigger than the last time, stretching the fabric of his black uniform. He looks all tough and shit, the kind of man that could kill you with one punch to the throat. I take a quick glance at his face, noting the lines and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. The signs of him aging are evident.
A smirk tilts my lips as I feel his imposing stare on me, his arms crossed. I take that as my cue to remove my cap, allowing him to inspect me. His expression morphs into one of confusion, then recognition, and a smile breaks out on his lips.
“Damien.” I nod, sizing him up.
“Fury. Haven’t seen you around in years. Thought you might be dead.” His voice is low, husky, dangerous—just what one would expect from a guard at an underground fight club.
“Not yet,” I reply, keeping my tone even.
“Alright then. Some of the old fighters are down there,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement. “Think you can take them on?”
“You have no idea how much things have changed.”
Looking me over from head to toe, he hums in approval. “Don’t get beaten to death, rookie.”
He shoves my shoulder lightly, recalling the times I was a young teenager, losing big time against the older, more experienced fighters.
“You know the rules,” he says.
I nod, and he lets me enter the warehouse’s basement below. I know what I’m here to do, and what I hope to achieve. There’s no better place to find contacts for illegal things than an underground club, especially if the same fighters I used to compete against are here. The upbeat music immediately flows through my veins, and the stench of sweat, blood, and perfume assaults my nostrils as I descend the stairs. Women and men alike stand in the crowd, cheering the fighters on, exchanging money while placing bets.
I eye the referee, about to approach him when someone bumps into my shoulder.
“Hey, watch it,” the man growls, his sweaty body clad in nothing but shorts and a headband. He’s taller than me, bulkier and more imposing, clearly a product of years in the ring. Recognition lights up his eyes as he takes in my face.
“Fury, never thought I’d see you again,” he says, noting the changes in my physique since my teenage years.
Vortex—whose real name is Jax—is a swift fighter known for creating a whirlwind of chaos with his unending stamina and aggression. Back when I first started fighting, he was the one who repeatedly beat my ass, trying to drill into me that I’d never belong there. He’s unpredictable, making him lethal, and I underestimated him.
Now, I know better. He’s the best fighter this club has ever seen.
“Vortex. Age hasn’t been too kind to you,” I retort, unable to not poke the bear. His smirk stretches his bloodied, cracked lips, showing a missing front tooth.
“Why are you back?” He eyes me suspiciously.
“Just some old business. Pent-up aggression.”
Without warning, he slams me hard against the wall, gripping my shirt collar tightly while gritting his teeth. “You’re lying.”
I let him hold me there, giving him a wide-toothed grin. “Ineed to disappear,” I say, and he immediately understands.
“I’ll tell you what,” he leans in, his breath a mix of mint and the metallic scent of blood. The room thrums with the pounding music as the fighting in the background continues, people cheering and screaming. “I know someone who can help you. Buddy price, you know.” The danger and threat in his voice is evident. “But it will cost you a favor.”
That’s how it works in this world; you pay with favors. No matter what, you always pay up. I learned to play this game long ago.
“Tell me what it is first.”
