6:00 PM.
The train hissed as its doors slid open, spilling passengers onto the crowded platform. Sam and Pete stepped out together, leaving the fading familiarity of their small city behind.
Their destination: Hope New City.
A D-tier city on paper, but it pulsed like something bigger—its heart beating with steel, neon, and noise. The Stone Gang had taken control a decade ago, carving it out of an E-tier backwater and shaping it into the glowing labyrinth it was today.
From the moment Sam stepped off the train, he felt swallowed by its energy.
The air vibrated with life. Neon signs buzzed overhead, bleeding reds, greens, and blues across the streets like spilled paint. Holographic ads flickered on building walls—shoes that promised to run faster than the wind, energy drinks that pulsed like liquid lightning, luxury apartments with "gang-protected security." The smells fought for dominance: sizzling beef skewers, spicy noodles curling steam into the night air, the sharp tang of oil and gasoline. Somewhere down the block, a street saxophonist blew a slow, mournful tune that was swallowed by the roar of engines and the chatter of a thousand voices.
Sam tilted his head back, staring at towers rimmed with neon strips, their glass windows glowing like stars. "It's… alive," he muttered, awe flickering in his voice. "Livelier than I imagined for a city at night."
Pete smirked, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. "Get used to it, man. Hope doesn't sleep. C'mon—we're gonna be late if you keep gawking."
They weaved through the crowd, heading west. The bustling streets slowly thinned. Neon glare faded into dim alleyway lamps, music gave way to murmurs, and the smell of food was replaced by damp concrete and faint smoke.
---
The Entrance
Sam blinked as Pete stopped in front of what looked like a plain warehouse. The paint was peeling, and the front door was guarded by two burly men whose arms bulged with inked gang marks. The kind of place you'd walk past without a second thought—if you didn't know better.
"You sure this is it?" Sam asked, lowering his voice.
Pete grinned knowingly. "Watch."
As another man approached, one of the guards scanned his wristband, then pulled open the heavy door. A pulse of bass-heavy music spilled out, along with a roar of voices.
Sam's eyes widened as they stepped through the threshold.
The inside was nothing like the outside.
The Underground Fight Club stretched wide and cavernous, like a massive sports arena had been buried beneath the city. Tiered seating circled the space, filled with bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, their shouts and chants echoing against steel walls. In the center, multiple bright-red platforms gleamed under harsh spotlights, each a stage for violence.
Everywhere, the scent of sweat and iron mixed with the sharp bite of cheap alcohol. The crowd buzzed like a living organism, its energy thrumming through Sam's bones.
"Whoa," Sam breathed, turning slowly in place. "This is huge…"
"Told you my source was legit," Pete said proudly, guiding him toward an empty section of seats.
Sam's eyes darted toward the front, where a betting booth overflowed with frantic gamblers slapping down bills and digital chips. "So this is how it works? Bet, cheer, win money, go home?"
Pete replied, tapping the screen of a sleek, thin tablet that flickered to life in his hands. Rows of neatly organized fighter profiles glowed across the surface, complete with stats, recorded highlights, and notes he'd compiled himself. Strengths, weaknesses, fighting styles—all laid out with crisp precision.
"I asked around and did a bit of snooping," he said, swiping through with a flourish. The display shifted smoothly between fighter dossiers, as if he had his own underground database. He grinned, proud of the work he'd put in.
Sam blinked. "Notes? On fighters?"
"Of course. Strengths, weaknesses, styles. You don't throw money around blind—you play smart." He flipped the pad open, showing neat rows of names and shorthand symbols.
Sam whistled low. "Didn't know you had it in you. Planning to fight them one day?"
Pete gave him a look. "Betting, Sam. I'm here to win. Leave the fighting to them."
Sam chuckled and lifted his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright."
A digital screen above the platforms flickered, announcing two names. The crowd erupted, surging with noise. Sam felt his chest vibrate with every chant and cheer.
On one stage, two fighters squared off. One was broad-shouldered, his muscles gleaming with sweat under the lights. The other was leaner, wiry, his movements twitchy like a coiled spring.
The bell rang.
The bigger man charged, fists like wrecking balls. The smaller fighter danced back, slipping under a hook, his feet skimming the platform with effortless speed. The crowd screamed at every dodge, every swing.
Then—impact. The smaller man snapped forward, his fist slamming against the giant's cheek with a sound like a hammer on steel. The crowd gasped as blood sprayed. Before the giant could recover, a sharp kick cracked into his forehead, snapping his head back. The wiry fighter didn't stop—he struck the chest, then the jaw, then shoved hard.
The big man stumbled, lost his balance—and toppled off the platform.
The arena exploded. Cheers thundered. Money flew at the betting booth as winners collected, losers cursed and clawed at their hair.
Sam sat frozen, his pulse racing. His eyes weren't on the victor's raised fist, but on the way he moved—the rhythm, the calculation hidden under the frenzy. He wasn't just watching. He was studying.
"That guy's Striker," Pete shouted over the din, checking his pad. "Favorite to break into the top twenty this year!"
"How many wins does it take to get there?" Sam asked, his voice tight with curiosity.
"Hundred within a year. Then you fight the others who make it, and the Stone Gang reshuffles the rankings." Pete grinned. "Top twenty get six figures, perks, maybe even a gang offer."
Sam nodded absently, eyes still locked on Striker. The wiry fighter's footwork burned itself into his mind, each strike replaying like a recording. Something inside him stirred—something restless
The night blurred into fight after fight. Each stage lit up with new names, new faces. Some matches ended with brutal knockouts, others with fighters shoved screaming off the platforms. Blood splattered under the lights, sweat shone like rain.
The crowd lived for it. Every slam of fist into flesh made them howl. Every desperate comeback pulled them to their feet. The air thickened with tension and heat, vibrating with the primal rhythm of violence.
Pete laughed whenever his bets landed, cursed when they didn't. Sam hardly noticed. He leaned forward in his seat, shoulders tense, eyes narrowed.
Every feint. Every slip. Every counter. He absorbed them all.
Unconsciously, his hands twitched in his lap, mimicking the motions—blocking, striking, stepping aside. It wasn't practice. Not yet. Just instinct.
But the seed was there.
As another fighter crumpled to the mat, Sam exhaled slowly, his heart thundering. He didn't know it yet, but he wasn't just a spectator.
He was learning.
---
Pete elbowed him, grinning wide. "Told you this was worth the trip."
Sam blinked, dragging his gaze from the platform. "Yeah… yeah, it is."
His words were casual, but his eyes still burned, fixed on the fighters below.
And deep inside, a quiet thought took root.
One day… I won't just be watching.
*******