Thick cigarette smoke hung low, filtering the light from the single, bare bulb dangling from the bar's ceiling. The stench of sweat, cheap booze, and shouting crowds mixed together, thick, hot, and sticky, a resinous layer of filth that felt palpable on the skin. In the middle of it all, two fighters faced off.
On one side stood Connor—188 cm tall, with a close-cropped haircut, and a mass of muscle. On the other, Brisky Corwin—183 cm, visibly leaner, with long hair pulled into a tight knot.
SMASH! The sound of a glass liquor bottle breaking was the starting gun for the fight.
The crowd erupted into a roar.
Connor charged immediately, a chained bull on the loose. He was a fighter who relied purely on weight and arrogance. His right fist—a goddamn sledgehammer—shot toward Brisky's temple.
CRACK! The punch landed with a deafening thud.
Brisky staggered but didn't fall. His teeth grinded; the raw, metallic scent of his own blood immediately choked his throat. He swallowed the sharp pain, taking a step back. Behind him, the crowd's roar was deafening. He let Connor's second punch connect with his raised left forearm.
Connor roared in triumph. "Where are your tricks? You're just a lost puppy!"
Connor then unleashed a sickening uppercut. Brisky took the blow square on the chin—the world spun, and blood spurted from his mouth. He bit his tongue, tasting the metallic, hot salt of his own blood. As Connor momentarily relaxed, Brisky found the opening he had been waiting for.
Brisky's head tilted barely an inch. He spun around and unleashed a sharp, unexpected elbow strike.
KRAKK! The elbow slammed into the bridge of Connor's nose.
Blood instantly gushed, splattering Brisky's face.
The arrogance on Connor's face faded, replaced by shock and blazing rage. He reeled. Brisky lunged, capitalizing on Connor's imbalance. He unleashed a flurry of dirty strikes: a liver punch that stole Connor's breath, followed by an elbow to the back of the ear.
Connor collapsed. He hit the slick, dirty cement floor with a wet thud.
The cheering crowd's volume broke into a frantic, earsplitting noise.
Brisky gave him no time to breathe. He immediately locked onto Connor's body, but his target wasn't the head.
Brisky locked Connor's left leg, twisting his knee until the joint was under agonizing pressure. It was a sadistic lock—meant to torture, not kill. Connor howled. It wasn't the roar of a fighter, but the wail of a loser realizing his own ruin.
Just as Brisky began to tighten his grip, he eased it back. He leaned his blood-smeared face close, forcing the whimpering Connor to look into his eyes.
"BREAK HIM... BREAK HIM... BREAK HIM!" the crowd roared, the sound swallowing the cramped room.
Brisky hissed his final insult, his voice hoarse and cold as ice:
"You talk too much!"
The snapping sound was a sweet, clean note in the bar's deafening noise. Brisky instantly tightened his grip with all his strength.
KREKKKK!
The sound of the joint snapping was loud and sickening. Connor shrieked, his voice breaking into a ragged, pathetic sob.
The crowd cheered, throwing wads of cash into the air.
Brisky released his grip, spat beside Connor's now-screaming head, and stood up. He smiled coldly, savoring the smell of victory mixed with blood and cheap booze, before...
CRASH! The door was kicked open, shattering the already chaotic atmosphere. A tall, blond man, flanked by two burly bodyguards, roared: "Brisky, you bastard! There you are! You cheated me! Your crypto tanked!"
Brisky looked at Marko, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Calm down, man," he whispered. He grabbed an empty liquor bottle nearby, then, without warning, shattered it onto the nearest bodyguard's head.
Glass shards flew everywhere. The fight broke out instantly.
The injured bodyguard fell, blood dripping down his face. The second guard immediately charged, trying to grab Brisky. Brisky, accustomed to moving quickly in tight spaces, dodged. He dropped, hooked the guard's leg, and shoved him, sending him tumbling down onto Connor, who was still whimpering in pain.
Marko, face red with fury, grabbed an iron pipe from one of his men. "You'll pay for this, Brisky!" he bellowed.
Marko's other men rushed in from the doorway. The patrons in the underground bar scattered in panic. Quickly, Brisky landed a fist on Marko's face. Marko staggered backward, caught by his cronies. Before the other two men could react, Brisky jumped and drove his knee straight into the head of one man.
The other struck Brisky from the side with a baseball bat. Brisky instantly protected his head with his arm. He staggered, almost falling. At that moment, he grabbed an empty bottle lying on the ground, throwing it at his opponent's face. Glass broke and blood spurted.
Brisky realized he was outnumbered. He swung his fists blindly, hitting anyone in his path, creating a gap for escape. He turned, ran up the stairs, and flipped Marko the middle finger.
Above was the main bar room, packed with patrons. Brisky ran frantically as Marko's men chased him. He turned, kicked someone's groin, grabbed a bottle, and smashed it over another man's head while searching for the exit. The people around him, men and women, screamed in terror. The lively bar atmosphere erupted into total chaos.
As Marko's men closed in, Brisky grabbed a man in front of him, pushing him into the approaching cluster of goons. They all stumbled. Brisky used the moment to throw whatever he could grab at them while mocking them, then quickly fled out the bar door.
***
The city streets were busy that night. Brisky ran barefoot, the cold, gritty asphalt scraping the soles of his feet. He was wearing only a grubby black tank top and wrinkled dark pants.
Behind him, a mob of people in matching uniforms chased, shouting insults: "Bastard! Scumbag! Coward!"
Brisky ran, panting, and let out a mocking laugh. Ahead of him was a street vendor. Quickly, he snatched a drink and threw a wad of cash onto the cart, drinking it on the run. His mind raced. His eyes fixed on a parked bicycle, which he quickly kicked, sending it tumbling across the road to block the path of Marko's gang.
Several pursuers fell and rolled. Brisky approached them, snatching a fallen baseball bat. He hammered the two men still standing. BAM! THUD!
"You maniac! You psycho!" one of the pursuers screamed.
Brisky scoffed while landing a straight kick that sent one of them flying into his partner.
He resumed running, breathing hard, blood still dripping from his mouth. A yellow taxi appeared at the end of the street. Brisky jumped inside.
***
The startled taxi driver started to speak.
Brisky immediately cut him off: "If you don't drive this car, it'll be ruined! Take me anywhere, just away from here! This is your money!" He threw a handful of sweat and blood-soaked cash onto the dashboard.
The dazed taxi driver instantly slammed the gas pedal. They sped away, leaving the frustrated howls of Marko's men behind.
Once he was sure they were safe, he asked the taxi driver to drop him off at the coastal area on the city's edge. He needed a quiet place, far from the commotion, at least to process the night's victory and chaos.
The taxi stopped. Brisky Corwin stepped out, his body covered in bruises, his face still smeared with caked blood. He didn't look like a winner; he looked like a predator who had just finished feeding.
He walked under the streetlights. People looked at him fearfully and avoided him. He kept walking. His gaze fixed on a convenience store. He went in and headed straight for the cooler, grabbing a few cans of beer and snacks. The cashier, who had been busy playing on his smartphone, was shocked by Brisky's bloodied appearance.
"Two packs of smokes!" Brisky snapped, handing over the beer and snacks.
The cashier stammered nervously. "Y-yes, sir."
After paying, he stepped out. The sound of the plastic bag rustling in his hand. He walked aimlessly until he heard the sound of the waves. The beach was relatively quiet that night.
***
He heard the sound of a soft conversation. His gaze scanned the surroundings, then settled on two teenagers sitting on a bench facing the sea. The guy's arm was draped over his girlfriend's shoulder, and he was whispering seductive words. The girl remained silent, hesitant.
Brisky watched the scene with a wicked smile. Purity was a lie the weak told themselves; he preferred to show them the truth.
"Damn, kids these days," he muttered. He calmly walked toward them.
"Babe, come on, let's do it over there, no one's around," the teenage boy pleaded, his gaze fixed on a darker area.
"But... I..." the girl's voice choked, before she could finish her sentence.
A hand grabbed the teenage boy's hair. The grip was so strong that a scream broke the silence of the night beach.
"Arghhhhh, bastard!" the teenage boy screamed, his face yanked upward. He stared at the person grabbing his hair: a man, his face covered in dried blood, his gaze sharp and cynical.
Then SLAP! The sound of a slap was deafening. The teenage boy stumbled forward, clutching his split, bloody lip, groaning in pain, kneeling in the sand.
Brisky picked up his fallen shopping bag, then jumped over the bench and sat down calmly—his right foot resting on the teenager's head.
The girl with the boy reflexively stood up. Her eyes were wide, her body trembling with fear as she looked at Brisky, tears streaming down her face.
"Wallet out!" Brisky said in a hoarse, cold voice.
The teenage boy fumbled in his pocket, his hands shaking, cold sweat soaking his temples, his eyes pleading. He handed the wallet to Brisky.
Brisky snatched the wallet, checking the contents.
His smile broadened. He counted the sheets. "A grand? Damn, you're rich!" Brisky said with a low laugh.
The teenage boy only whimpered in pain, clutching his mouth.
Brisky calmly removed his right foot, threw the empty wallet onto the ground, then examined the boy's body. His gaze fixed on the teenage boy's shoes.
"Nike Airmax? Hehehe, take off your shoes," Brisky ordered sharply.
"But—" The boy tried to protest.
"Take 'em off! Before I break your damn legs," Brisky snapped.
With a pale face and shaking hands, the teenager took off his shoes. Brisky immediately slipped them on.
"Fits perfectly. Now scram, you pervert."
Without looking back, the teenager ran away in terror, abandoning his girlfriend.
Then his gaze turned to the girl, who was hunched over and sobbing. "Tch!" Brisky scoffed, "Your wallet and phone, now!"
Crying, the girl handed them over.
"Good!" Brisky said, his tone calm. Then he looked at the girl's ID. "Bastard! You're underage!" he exclaimed. He stood up, approached the girl who was hunched over, and gently grabbed her hair.
Their eyes met; hers were wet, Brisky stared at her cynically.
"Let this be your lesson! So you won't be out late aimlessly."
He pushed the girl to the ground.
"Now get lost!"
The girl immediately ran away, sobbing, her voice lost in the roar of the waves.
"Tch! Teenagers these days." He returned to the bench and opened a can of beer. The first gulp refreshed his throat, leaving a warm, rough taste in his chest. With the other hand, he lit a cigarette. The smoke curled, carried away by the salty sea wind. The waves rolled, crashing on the rocks. The rhythm was soothing.
He stared at the dark sea. For a moment, he felt free. He took a deep breath, holding the cigarette smoke in his lungs, then exhaled it toward the stars. The night felt long