The back room buzzed with low voices and cigar smoke as the hour ticked down. Outside, the crowd roared over the ending of another brutal brawl. A man stumbled past the door, shirtless and bloodied, laughing through a split lip as he dragged himself toward the bar for his payout—or maybe just more painkillers.
Wang stood by the gear bench in the prep hallway, fists taped, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. His stomach churned. His heartbeat felt like a war drum in his chest.
Rocky stood in front of him, arms crossed. That same calm, stone-faced presence—like he'd seen this shit a thousand times and would see it a thousand more.
"Alright," Rocky said, finally breaking the silence. "Three things you need to remember."
Wang took a breath. "Hit hard, don't die, get paid?"
Rocky cracked a grin, barely. "Close enough. First—your opponent's gonna fight dirty."
Wang frowned. "How dirty?"
"This ain't Olympic boxing. This is prison-yard etiquette. Headbutts, eye gouges, knee to the dick—you name it. If the ref blinks, you better assume the guy's gonna try to cripple you."
Wang nodded slowly, pulse still racing. "So what do I do?"
"You fight dirty first," Rocky said. "You let him know you ain't here to dance, you're here to fuckin' maim."
"Got it."
"Second rule," Rocky said, stepping closer, voice tightening, "never turn your back to your opponent. Not when you're tired. Not when the bell rings. Not even if you think the bastard's unconscious."
Wang raised a brow. "Unless he's dead?"
Rocky nodded. "Exactly. Unless he's fuckin' dead."
Wang gave a slow exhale and rolled his shoulders. "Okay... okay. I'm good."
Rocky placed a firm hand on Wang's shoulder, looking him dead in the eye. "You step into that ring, you're no longer Wang the trainee. You're a goddamn animal. You lose your fear. You make 'em bleed. Got it?"
Wang clenched his fists, cyberarm humming softly under the tape.
"Got it."
A sharp knock came on the backstage door. A runner with a nose ring and clipboard stuck his head in. "You're up. Let's fuckin' go."
Rocky patted Wang on the back. "Time to earn your scars."
***
The roar of the crowd hit like a wave as they stepped into the main floor of the pub.
The cage lights swung low over the ring, illuminating the blood-stained mat now cleaned just enough to pass for usable. Beer cups and cigarette butts littered the floor around the fighting pit. The stench of smoke, sweat, and cheap liquor was overwhelming.
People crowded the edges of the ring, screaming and shoving to get a better view. Some already had betting slips in hand. Others were too high to care.
The hypemen took their place in the center of the ring—two scrawny jackals in tracksuits with mics, one with a shaved head and the other wearing sunglasses indoors like a third-rate DJ.
"ALRIIIGHT, you savage sons of bitches," the bald one yelled into the mic, and the crowd erupted in cheers and hoots.
"Hope you fuckers are ready for some gore, 'cause we got a fresh one tonight!" shouted the one with sunglasses.
"Introducing first—this man needs no fuckin' intro, but we're giving him one anyway!"
"From the Bloodpits of Port Pirie," the bald one shouted, pacing dramatically, "standing at six-foot-three, two hundred and forty pounds of pure unfiltered violence, with a record of seven wins, one murder, and zero fucks given—give it up for Mad Dog Marrick! LET'S FUCKIN' GOOOO!"
The crowd went absolutely feral.
A man stepped out from the shadows behind the ring.
Wang's eyes locked onto him—and his gut dropped.
Marrick looked like a walking prison riot. His skin was pale and veiny, his face scarred with what looked like old barbed wire wounds. A tattoo of a skull covered half his shaved head, and his nose had been broken more than once. He wore bloodstained combat pants and no shirt, exposing a torso covered in gang ink and tribal etchings, plus a giant slash mark across his left pectoral—stitched up badly, like he didn't give a shit.
He snarled like a dog, spitting on the mat as he climbed into the ring, pounding his chest and flipping off the crowd, which only made them cheer louder.
"He's fuckin' juicing again, I swear—look at those eyes," someone near Wang muttered, and sure enough, Marrick's pupils were pinpricks, his jaw grinding like he'd eaten two grams of crank for breakfast.
Wang's blood ran cold.
"And now," said Sunglasses, turning to the other corner, "we got... uh..."
He squinted at his clipboard.
"Jackie... Chang? Wait, what's his name again?"
"Does it matter?" the bald one shouted, grinning to the crowd. "Some nobody with a metal arm!"
The crowd howled with laughter.
"Straight outta whatever dumpster Rocky found him in, stepping into the ring for the first—and probably last—time, make some noise for this sorry bastard!"
Laughter. Jeering. Someone threw a bottle cap that bounced off the cage wall near Wang's corner.
He didn't react.
He just stepped forward.
One foot into the ring. Then the next.
Marrick was pacing like a caged animal, staring him down, licking his teeth like he could already taste blood.
Rocky leaned in close to Wang's ear through the cage.
"Eyes forward," he growled. "Remember what I said."
Wang nodded once. Cold sweat dripped down the back of his neck.
Then he stepped to the center.
And locked eyes with Marrick.
The cage door clanged shut behind Wang.
The sound echoed in his ears like a death knell. Every cheer, every insult, every laugh melted into a background buzz. His eyes locked on Mad Dog Marrick, who was pacing like a wolf in a cage, muscles twitching with chemical fury. The guy's jaw ground side to side, eyes darting like a cracked-out predator sizing up his prey.
Wang rolled his shoulders. Breathed through his nose.
Don't think. Just move.
The ref stood between them—some half-drunk burnout in a sleeveless shirt with a whistle around his neck and knuckles bruised from too many fights of his own.
"You know the rules," he muttered. "Which is none. Knock the bastard out or tap him. Don't kill him unless you're ready to deal with the cleanup fee."
He barely stepped out of the way before Marrick came stomping forward, hands up, sneering.
"You got a pretty face for a convict," Marrick growled, voice thick with saliva. "Gonna break it real slow."
Wang said nothing.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Marrick's expression twitched. He threw a feint jab—fast, but not real—trying to get a reaction.
Wang didn't bite.
He kept his eyes locked on his opponent's chest, not the hands. Reading breath. Posture. Weight shifts. Just like Rocky drilled into his skull for the last three months.
Marrick tried another one. A left hook this time, fake as hell.
Still, Wang stood still.
Unbothered.
And that was when Marrick committed.
He snarled and lunged in with a real punch—a right cross full of rage and bad coke, aiming straight for Wang's temple.
Wang moved.
SLIP.
Not back, not away—side.
He turned with the motion and stepped inward, not retreating like most first-timers would. That opened the gap. Marrick's punch sailed wide.
And then—
Wang saw it.
An opening.
Wide. Vulnerable. Exposed.
He didn't hesitate.
His booted foot snapped upward with all the weight and torque he could muster.
THWACK.
Direct hit.
Right in the nuts.
The sound alone made a few men in the audience flinch.
Marrick let out a strangled gasp—a horrible, high-pitched yelp that sounded nothing like the snarling beast from seconds ago. His legs buckled instantly. His eyes crossed. He collapsed to one knee, gasping, both hands clutching between his legs like he was trying to hold his soul in.
The crowd went silent for half a second.
Then Wang lunged.
He didn't wait. Didn't think. Didn't even let the ref blink.
He tackled Marrick down onto the mat, mounted his chest with brutal precision, and started hammering down blows.
BAM—BAM—BAM—BAM.
Right fist. Left fist. Right again. His cybernetic arm whined under the strain, every blow landing with a sickening thud, each one cracking bone or splitting skin.
Marrick's face started to cave under the assault. Nose flattened. Cheek split open. His hands, still cupping his groin, never even reached up to block.
The crowd was stunned—eyes wide, mouths open. Nobody expected it. Not from a nobody. Not this fast. Not this savage.
Blood splattered across Wang's forearms, dripping off his elbows.
It wasn't clean.
It wasn't technical.
It was raw fucking fury.
The ref dove in from the side, grabbing Wang by the shoulders. "THAT'S ENOUGH! HE'S OUT! HE'S FUCKIN' OUT!"
Wang breathed like a bull, chest rising and falling, fists still clenched tight. His eyes burned with adrenaline.
"HE'S DONE! HE'S FUCKIN' DONE!" the ref yelled, prying him off.
Wang stumbled back, arms up defensively at first, but then—he saw it.
Marrick was out cold. Sprawled across the mat in a twitching, broken mess. His legs splayed awkwardly, blood pooling under his head, mouth open like he was still trying to process what the hell just happened.
The ref stepped over him, raised one arm toward Wang.
"Winner by knockout—Jackie Chang!"
The crowd erupted.
A wall of noise slammed into the cage. Bottles were raised. Cash thrown into the air. Bets exchanged in a frenzy. People screamed, laughed, slapped each other's backs.
"Holy shit!"
"Did you see that?!"
"He kicked him in the fuckin' balls and wrecked him!"
"That metal arm—fuck me!"
"New blood! This guy's for real!"
Backstage, Rocky just grinned from behind the cage wall.
Wang stood in the center, chest still heaving, cybernetic fist dripping blood.
He didn't smile.
Didn't cheer.
He just stared down at Marrick's broken body.
And then slowly turned toward the crowd—toward the people who had laughed at him just minutes ago.
They weren't laughing now.
They were chanting.
"JACKIE! JACKIE! JACKIE! JACKIE!"
He lowered his fists, the noise washing over him like heat.
This was it.
His first win.
His first step out of obscurity.
And it was only the beginning.
Q: Have you ever watched any Jackie Chan films?