A few days after his conversation with Pete, Sam sat slumped at his study table, a single sheet of paper trembling between his fingers. His head was bowed low, his dark eyes fixed on the stark black letters printed across the top:
NOTICE OF EVICTION WARNING.
The letter had arrived only hours earlier, hand-delivered by the grim-faced agent who managed his apartment block. The man hadn't bothered with much courtesy—just a knock, a glance, and the cold reminder that rent was overdue and Sam would be out on the street if he didn't pay up soon.
Now, the warning sat heavy in Sam's hands, heavier than it had any right to be.
Living alone had never been easy. At eighteen, with no family to rely on and no real education past high school, he was stuck working in a convenience store—hardly an ideal job in this day and age. Especially in an E-tier city, where paychecks were barely enough to scrape by.
Sam, dark-skinned with sharp brown eyes, stood five-foot-nine, with a face most people might call "above average." Not bad-looking, not unforgettable. Just… Sam. But right now, he didn't look like a young man in his prime. He looked like someone already carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"I hate saying this," he muttered softly, his voice raw, gaze drifting from the letter to the corner of his desk. "But I wish you both were still here. Maybe things could've been different."
There, propped against a lamp, was a photograph—the only one he had left. It showed a smiling man and a fine young woman, standing close together, their arms draped around a child who bore an uncanny resemblance to Sam, just younger and far happier.
That picture was all that survived the fire.
He didn't remember everything about that night, but he remembered enough. A gang had been behind it—that much he knew. The landlord hadn't paid his protection fee, and the gang leader had decided to make an example of him. They burned the building to the ground. His parents' lives had been nothing more than collateral damage in a feud between cowards.
Sam's hand clenched into a fist around the letter. The edges crumpled under the pressure, and for a moment, he felt an almost physical ache in his chest. Then, with a sigh, he forced his grip to loosen, laying the warning flat on the desk as though it were fragile glass.
"Well," he said quietly, "there's nothing I can do now. I just hope they found peace… wherever they are."
His eyes flicked back to the letter, then to the empty corners of his small apartment. The walls were bare, the air faintly damp, the hum of the freezer in the corner the only sign of life. It wasn't much of a home—just four walls keeping the outside world at bay—but it was all he had. And now, even that was under threat.
"But I need to figure out something," he whispered. "I can't keep depending on the peanuts I make at the store. It's not enough. Not even close."
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the cracked ceiling. His mind spun with options—or rather, the lack of them. His age was a problem. Most jobs that paid well required experience, certifications, or college degrees. Things Sam didn't have, couldn't afford, and probably never would.
He'd been too busy trying to survive to think about higher education.
And yet, despite all the logical dead ends, a single unwelcome thought wormed its way into his mind—a conversation with Pete that he'd tried to shove into the back of his memory.
The fight club.
Sam groaned, dragging his hands down his face.
"That might really be my only option," he admitted to the empty room. "Fastest way to make money… but also the riskiest."
The problem wasn't just the danger—it was the stakes. To make money in a place like that, you had to bet big. Too small and it wasn't worth the trouble. Too big and you risked losing everything. And Sam didn't even have money to spare in the first place.
His chest tightened as he thought of his parents again. Would they be ashamed if they knew what he was considering? Or would they just want him to survive, no matter the cost? He didn't know.
He considered asking the store for an advance but dismissed the thought almost immediately. They didn't lend to employees who hadn't been around for at least three years. As for asking Pete… Sam shook his head. He couldn't bring himself to lean on his friend like that. Pete's family wasn't wealthy, and besides, Sam's pride wouldn't let him.
"Forget it," he muttered. "I'll just tag along first. Watch. Then decide."
The decision brought a sliver of relief, though uncertainty still gnawed at him. He picked up his phone, hesitating only a moment before dialing Pete's number.
The line barely rang before a loud, cheerful voice boomed through. "Heyyy! What's up?"
Sam blinked in surprise. "You answered fast. That's… not like you."
"My phone was right next to me, idiot. What, you expect me to let it ring a few times just so I don't sound suspicious?" Pete shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word.
Sam chuckled despite himself. "Fair enough. Anyway, I wanted to ask… when are you heading to that club?"
There was a pause. "What club?" Pete asked, sounding genuinely confused.
"The fight club," Sam said flatly.
"Ohhh. That. I thought you weren't interested?" Pete's tone shifted, smug amusement clear in his voice. Sam could practically hear the smirk on his face.
"I changed my mind."
"Hmph." Pete made a noise that was half laugh, half gloat. "Well, I'm going the day after tomorrow. Our day off. Friday."
"Good. I'll come with you," Sam said quickly. "Just to check it out. And… to make sure you don't get into too much trouble."
It was a lie, and a flimsy one at that. But Pete, predictably, swallowed it whole.
"Thanks, bro! Seriously. I didn't want to go alone anyway."
Sam grimaced. "Don't thank me. I'm going regardless." His stomach twisted with guilt, but there was no way he could explain his real reason. Not yet.
"Friday it is then. Meet me at the train station by six-thirty sharp. That way we'll get there before it starts. Since it's our first time, I don't wanna miss the opening fights."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Since when were you this organized?"
"Since I don't wanna get home late and have Mom nag me to death," Pete replied with all the seriousness of a man planning a military campaign.
Sam smirked. "Fine. Friday. Don't forget to bring enough cash. Since I'm tagging along, you're buying me dinner."
"Yeah, right," Pete laughed.
They chatted a little longer, drifting into the usual nonsense about customers at the store and Pete's endless supply of "great ideas." Finally, they hung up.
Sam set the phone down and leaned back in his chair again. His gaze slid once more to the old photograph. His parents' smiles looked back at him, frozen in time.
"All that's left now is Friday," he whispered.
And yet, beneath the quiet of the room, unease gnawed at him. Was this really the right choice—or the biggest mistake of his life?
Either way, Friday was coming. And with it, the first step into a world he might never walk out of.
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