Jason sat back in his workshop, the silence almost alien after a day of laughter and teasing from his co-workers. He glanced around at the tools, the spare parts, the projects that kept him busy enough to forget his reality—at least for a while. But tonight, forgetting wasn't an option. Tonight, he was facing something bigger.
He leaned on the desk and whispered, "System. Status."
The familiar translucent window flickered to life, hovering just above his workbench. His eyes darted over the numbers:
Combat Speed: 22/100
Combat Strength: 19/100
Agility: 24/100
Punch Power: 21/100
Reflex: 18/100
Total Strength Rating: 20/100
Jason let out a sharp breath through his teeth. "Damn… that bad?" He rubbed his jaw, frowning. The numbers weren't just low; they were pathetic. Street fighters with ratings like that didn't last. They were the kind of men who got chewed up and spat out in the first thirty seconds of a brawl.
"Not even good enough for a warm-up fight," he muttered.
The system, ever neutral, offered no encouragement—just cold, hard data. It was a mirror that showed the truth he didn't want to face. He wasn't strong enough. Not yet.
But then he straightened, clenching his fists. He couldn't let the stats rule him. He wasn't numbers. He was will.
He thought of Sophie briefly—her fragile smile, her voice asking him when he'd come back, her small hands gripping his like she never wanted to let go. That memory sparked the fire in his chest. He didn't need perfect stats. He needed heart.
The door creaked, snapping him out of his thoughts. Sam leaned in, holding his bag lazily over one shoulder. "Jason. It's time, man. Everyone's cleared out."
Jason quickly dismissed the system screen, as if hiding his vulnerability. "Yeah. Let's go."
Sam raised a brow, studying him. "You look like you just read your obituary."
Jason chuckled dryly. "Nah. Just checking the weather forecast for hell. Says I should dress light."
Sam shook his head but smiled faintly. "You're crazy."
"And you're still here," Jason shot back, grabbing his jacket.
As they walked through the dim streets toward the underground arena, Sam couldn't help voicing his worry again. "Listen, Jason. I know you've got your reasons. But this isn't just a joke. Guys get messed up in these fights. Some don't walk away the same. You sure you're ready for this?"
Jason exhaled slowly, gaze fixed ahead. "I don't have to be ready. I just have to show up."
Sam frowned. "That's not exactly a plan."
Jason smirked. "Sure it is. Plan A—don't die. Plan B—make money. Plan C—figure out the rest later."
Sam rolled his eyes. "You sound like an idiot."
"But I'm your idiot," Jason said with a grin, bumping Sam's shoulder.
They reached the old warehouse that doubled as the street-fighting venue. The smell hit first—sweat, smoke, and the metallic tang of dried blood. Inside, the air buzzed with rowdy voices, bets being thrown down, and the dull thud of fists meeting flesh from an ongoing fight.
Victor spotted them immediately, his wide grin flashing under the dim lights. He strode over like a man who owned the place. "Well, well, look who it is. The rookie himself!"
Jason smirked but kept his composure. "You sound too happy to see me. That means you're either about to rob me or throw me to the wolves."
Victor clapped him on the back hard enough to jolt him forward. "Both, if you're lucky."
Sam sighed, muttering under his breath, "This is such a bad idea."
Victor ignored him and led them toward the back. Fighters warmed up in the corners, shadow-boxing, stretching, or psyching themselves up. Jason watched them closely—their lean muscle, their sharp focus, their movements that screamed experience. His stomach tightened, but he masked it with a confident grin.
Victor handed him a mouthguard and some wraps. "First fight's small. Nothing big. Just a warm-up, see what you're made of. Crowd loves fresh meat."
Jason slipped the mouthguard between his teeth, speaking around it. "Comforting."
Victor laughed. "Relax. Nobody expects you to win… but if you do…" He rubbed his fingers together, the universal sign for money.
Sam leaned close, his voice low. "Listen to me, Jason. If you get in over your head, just remember who you're doing this for. Don't let pride get you killed. Survive first, prove something later."
Jason nodded. His eyes burned with determination. "Got it."
The announcer's voice boomed from the center ring, calling for the next match. Jason's name—his real name—wasn't used. Instead, Victor had already given him a stage name: Iron Mask.
Jason stepped into the ring. The crowd's roar was deafening, a sea of strangers eager to watch him succeed or fail. His opponent, a stocky man with a crooked nose and a cruel smirk, cracked his knuckles and sized Jason up like prey.
Jason rolled his shoulders, bouncing lightly on his feet. The stats in his head told him he was outmatched. But the fire in his chest told him otherwise.
The bell rang.