Rain poured heavily over the city, drowning the sidewalks in dirty, icy water. Police sirens still wailed in the distance, but Elias Marrow no longer heard them. He sat on the curb, soaked, his eyes locked on the flames devouring his family's house.
Passersby stopped, some took pictures, others whispered about "the poor boy" who had just lost everything. No one could see his face in the shadows, no one guessed at the cold spark in his eyes.
Elias wasn't crying. He was counting.
One, two, three… Each breath, each second the fire erased his past, branding a single truth into his mind: the world wouldn't break him. No. He would break the world.
---
Two weeks later.
The police called it an accident. A gas leak. The media spun it into a "family tragedy." No one dared dig deeper. The Marrows were wealthy, influential, entangled in vague business dealings. And no one wanted to talk about what they really did behind closed doors.
But Elias knew.
He knew his father had built an empire on other people's blood. That he had betrayed, manipulated, destroyed lives. And most of all… Elias knew the massacre wasn't an accident. Someone wanted the Marrow family erased.
And Elias had let it happen.
---
Now, the young man stood in a rundown boxing gym, deep in the slums. Flickering neon lights hummed, the air reeked of sweat, and fists slammed against heavy bags like war drums.
Elias wrapped his hands with surgical precision. Every gesture exact. Every knot tight.
Across from him, a hulking man warmed up, pounding the bag as if he wanted to rip it off its chain. Tattoos covered his arms, his bloodshot eyes already searching for a target.
— "You, the new kid," he growled. "I heard you want to test your fists. You even know how to take a hit?"
Elias lifted his gaze. No smile. No hesitation. Just a stare that cut like glass.
— "Try me," he replied.
The fight began without a bell. The giant charged, his fist swinging like an anvil. Elias didn't move. He waited, watched, then stepped aside at the last second. His fist cracked into the man's ribs—sharp, precise.
One strike. Then two. Then three. Each impact sounded like a verdict.
The giant staggered, stunned. He had expected a fragile boy, not a blade disguised as a fist.
— "Who the hell taught you to hit like that?!" he spat, stumbling back.
Elias wiped blood from his lip, unfazed.
— "Hatred."
---
When the man collapsed, gasping, unable to rise, silence filled the gym. All eyes turned to Elias. Some saw a prodigy. Others, a threat.
But none understood that this fight was only a beginning. A test. A seed.
Elias wasn't seeking fame, or money. What he sought was a weapon. Not one of steel. But one of flesh and will. His own body. His own fists.
Because he knew one day, he would need them. Not against washed-up boxers in the slums. But against those who had destroyed his family. The ones pulling strings from the shadows. The ones who thought they could manipulate the world without ever paying the price.
---
That night, leaving the gym, Elias looked up at the towering buildings that swallowed the sky. His fists were still red, but his mind had never been clearer.
"I will never be a victim again," he thought. "From now on, I decide who falls."
And in the darkness of the city, he made himself a promise: every smile, every handshake, every promise his enemies made… would be their own death sentence.
The rain began to fall again. But this time, Elias smiled.