The gymnasium buzzed with energy. The crowd was alive, cheering, waiting for the next arm wrestling bout. But for Marcus Perez, the noise around him blurred into silence.
He sat at the edge of the stage, chalking his hands, staring at the table like it was a battlefield. His name had been called. His opponent had been announced.
And it was him.
The same boy who used to spit at him when he was begging for coins near the marketplace. The same boy who mocked him for his torn clothes and hollow stomach. The one who once stepped on his hand while he reached for scraps of food.
Erwin Cruz.
---
Marcus's Past
Marcus grew up in the slums, raised by a grandmother too frail to work. As a child, he spent afternoons on street corners, holding out his hand, whispering: "Just a coin, please… just one coin."
But instead of pity, he found cruelty. People sneered. Children mocked him. And Erwin—rich kid, sharp uniform, smug grin—was the cruelest of all.
When Marcus turned twelve, his grandmother passed away. With no one left, he worked odd jobs, lifted crates at the docks, swept filthy sidewalks just to eat. But in those nights, under a single flickering bulb, Marcus trained. He clenched bricks until his hands bled, lifted water jugs, pushed against walls, whispering the same words:
"One day… I'll be strong enough that no one can look down on me again."
---
The Present
Now, years later, Marcus sat across from Erwin at the arm wrestling table.
Erwin was taller, leaner, with a cocky smile that hadn't changed since childhood. He flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders as if the match was already his.
"Perez," Erwin smirked. "Who would've thought? From the streets to this stage. Still chasing scraps, huh? Well, let me put you back where you belong."
Marcus didn't reply. His silence was heavy. His eyes burned not with rage, but with years of swallowed humiliation.
---
The Match Begins
"Ready—set—GO!"
Their hands locked. Muscles tensed. The table creaked.
The crowd roared, but Marcus heard only the echoes of his past. The laughter. The spit. The hunger.
Erwin's strength was real—his technique sharp, his wrist control tight. For the first few seconds, Marcus's arm was forced downward, his knuckles brushing close to the pad. The referee leaned in.
The crowd gasped.
But Marcus's mind flashed with his grandmother's voice. "Don't cry, Marcus. Someday, you'll rise above them all."
His arm stopped shaking. His wrist locked in place like stone. Slowly… painfully… the tide shifted.
Sweat dripped from Erwin's forehead. His smirk was gone, replaced with gritted teeth. "What—what is this strength?!"
Marcus's veins bulged, his forearm like steel. Every scar, every hardship, every night of training surged into his arm.
"Erwin," Marcus finally spoke, his voice low and steady. "I begged once. But today… I'll take what's mine."
With a roar that came from years of buried pain, Marcus slammed Erwin's hand to the pad.
The referee's hand shot up. "Winner—Marcus Perez!"
The crowd erupted. Some cheered wildly. Others murmured in shock. But Marcus didn't celebrate. He simply stood, chest heaving, eyes locked on Erwin.
For the first time, Erwin looked small. Pathetic. His pride shattered.
Marcus turned away, his jaw clenched, his eyes glistening—not with victory, but with the weight of a lifetime finally lifted.