He stood up, the legs of the chair scraping lightly against the floor. The knife twirled effortlessly in his hand, catching glints of light as he made his way toward her. Mellissa's breath hitched.
He stopped just beside the table, leaned in slightly, and said, "Apparently, someone out there thinks you're the chosen one." His voice carried no sarcasm, just quiet weight. "And they want you alive."
He straightened up, giving the blade one last spin. "But then… someone else sees you as a threat. Something that needs to be snuffed out before it spreads."
He paused, letting that settle. The knife came to a stop in his hand.
"And then," he added, glancing toward the wall of tools, "there are others who'll believe whatever suits them. People like that are dangerous. They move fast, loud and desperate."
He turned his eyes back to her.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice strained but steady.
He didn't answer immediately. Just gave her a slow, mocking look, then gestured to the room. "Let's not forget, sweetheart… I'm the reason you're still breathing."
He took a step back, the knife still lazily flipping in his hand. "But don't mistake that for charity. I don't run an orphanage, and this isn't a rescue mission."
Without warning, he snapped his fingers.
The metal straps binding her wrists and ankles clicked open one after the other, clattering softly against the edges of the table. Mellissa sat up cautiously, rubbing her wrists, watching him closely.
He turned and headed for the door, calling over his shoulder, "Come on. You can stretch your legs."
She followed, barefoot and uncertain, her eyes darting around the corridor as the door hissed shut behind them. The hallway was dimly lit, the air heavy with a mechanical hum. As they moved deeper, the familiar roar from before began to rise again — voices shouting, cheering, screaming.
They rounded a corner and stepped into the edge of an underground arena. The crowd above thundered in excitement, the pit below already soaked in sweat and violence. The scarred man led her to a shadowed viewing platform and motioned toward a seat.
She looked at him, skeptical. "Okay....?"
He leaned against the railing beside her, arms crossed. "Relax," he said, eyes fixed on the pit below. "Just watch."
A sharp buzz echoed from the old speakers mounted around the arena. Then came the voice — deep, theatrical, and charged with energy. The crowd began to stir.
"Ladies and gentlemen… WELCOME to the pit!" the commentator boomed, dragging out the last word as the noise swelled into a frenzy. "Tonight… you bear witness to chaos, carnage, and blood!"
Melissa sat still, her eyes sweeping the violent energy of the arena. She could feel it — something primal vibrating in the walls.
"And now," the voice continued, "stepping into the ring… a legend born of fire, forged in filth… a man whose fists are tombstones!"
The lights above the pit shifted, narrowing into a single blazing spotlight on a metal gate at the far end.
"They call him… Killmonger!"
The gate slammed open with a jarring clang.
Out stepped a man of average height but unnervingly solid frame. His skin was a mosaic of old scars, like a roadmap of violence carved into flesh. Muscles coiled under every movement, not in bulk, but in precision — lean and lethal. His hair was shaved low except for a jagged stripe down the middle, dyed blood red. A faded tattoo stretched across his collarbone: a tally of black lines too numerous to count. His eyes — hollow, predator-like — scanned the crowd with no emotion.
"Kill record?" the commentator added with a grin in his voice. "Two hundred confirmed. Yes, I said confirmed. Men. Women. Children. If it breathes… he's buried it."
Killmonger stepped into the arena barefoot, dragging a chain across the sand behind him like it was nothing more than a belt. When he reached the center, he stood still. Unmoving. Waiting.
Melissa gripped the edge of her seat, unsure if it was adrenaline or horror running through her.
Beside her, the scarred man chuckled.
"And now," the commentator teased, "let's meet his opponent…"
The crowd's roar simmered to confusion as the spotlight shifted again — this time, to the opposite gate. Unlike the thunderous slam that announced Killmonger, this gate creaked open, dragging its chains like it was reluctant to reveal its secret.
There was no music. No bursts of flame. Just… silence.
Then, slowly — painfully slowly — a figure emerged.
"And now…" the commentator said, his tone noticeably uncertain, "facing the Reaper of the Slums… we have… well… this one's a bit of a mystery, folks."