In a shadowed, dilapidated corner of the city where Law lives, known as Trax, life is a constant struggle for survival. Far west from the gleaming spires of Chroma, where the highers dwell in luxury and excess, Trax is a wasteland of broken dreams and rusted hopes. Crumbling buildings with barred windows cast long shadows across cracked pavement. Scrap metal and shattered glass cling to the remnants of people's homes, while tattered tarps flutter like ghostly flags over roofs of dark gray tiles. Here, existence is a gamble, an everyday fight to breathe, to eat, to stay alive. If you're lucky enough to draw breath, and even luckier to have a full belly, you count yourself fortunate in this forsaken zone.
Trax is a bleak shard of Arcadia, an even darker fragment of a city that prides itself on contrasts. Arcadia itself is a city of dreams and despair, but Trax is the slum's slum, a place where the sun barely pierces the haze, and danger lurks around every corner. Buildings crowd each other like desperate souls clutching onto life, their narrow alleyways a maze of shadows and secrets. Crime festers like a disease, and death claims its victims with alarming regularity, living past forty is a miracle here.
It's been just over four years since Law's parents, fierce fighters in their own right, were taken from him. Since that day, he's learned to navigate life's chaos, with his sister Ruby's smile as his anchor.
'Let's see, Ruby made about 2,500 credits, and I scraped together about 1,000. Minus what I blew on the proxy, that leaves us with roughly 2,700 for the week—if luck's on our side,' Law mused, his footsteps echoing softly on the cracked pavement. His lips curled downward, a shadow crossing his face as he carried the weight of responsibility.
"Guess I'll need another fight, sooner rather than later."
In Trax, fighting isn't just a sport, it's currency. While many regard BRAWL as the crown jewel of entertainment, the underground arenas pulse with raw, unregulated brutality, an unspoken economy of violence. That's where Law earns his keep.
His parents, once champions of their time, left behind every piece of training gear they had. For Law, those relics became more than memories, they were outlets for rage, outlets for pain. Night after night, he punched at heavy bags, sparred with the B-bot, a hulking, metallic training partner designed by BRAWL to push fighters to their limits. He'd been bloodied more times than he could count, but each bruise forged him into a fighter with a mean streak and steel nerves.
Lost in thought, Law's steps slowed as he approached his battered home. Suddenly, he was jerked from his reverie when something sent him sprawling forward. He hit the ground hard, dirt and gravel biting into his palms. Turning over, he saw three men standing behind him, shady figures with wary eyes and sneering grins. Law's jaw clenched, a flicker of amusement flickering in his eyes.
"Hey, didn't you hear me? What, are you deaf? Hand over the bag, kid—don't make me ask again."
A quiet, almost sinister chuckle escaped Law's lips.
"What are you laughing at, kid? Don't make us kill you," one of the men growled, steps deliberate, fists clenched.
Law considered fighting, his instincts screaming at him to throw a punch, but instead, he kept his voice steady, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "Relax, guys. It's just PROXY. I'm sure you don't want that right?"
The man in the center of the trio laughed loud and cruel, a grin splitting his face. "Like hell it is, kid. Nobody in Trax is stupid enough to want that garbage. That stuff's basically poison, nobody here's craving that crap. Just hand over the bag and walk away."
But Law knew better. His mutation set him apart, born with a rare condition that rendered him immune to pain. For the past two years, PROXY had been his closest companion, the only thing that made him feel alive, the touch of flesh, the taste and feel of food, even the sensation of needing to piss or shit. Without it, he was numb, disconnected.
"Well, shit," Law muttered softly. "I didn't want to do this, but—"
Before he could finish, a fist the size of a boulder crashed into his face. Dazed but unbroken, Law's head snapped to the side. His eyes flicked up just in time to see a boot heading straight for his ribs. He rolled sideways, narrowly avoiding the stomp, and scrambled to his feet. His muscles tensed as adrenaline surged through him. He darted forward, ducking beneath the man's left hook, planted his feet into the ground, and spun his body to the right. With all his might, he threw a powerful right hook into the attacker's ribs.
The man grunted as the blow crushed the air from his lungs, dropping to a knee in pain. Without hesitation, Law seized the moment, grabbing the back of the man's head and driving his knee upward into his face with a sickening crunch.
The unconscious man crumpled to the dirt, Law stepping back to assess the remaining two. His chest heaved, fists clenched, eyes burning with resolve.
"Want to keep this going? I'm warmed up now. Both of you can come at me," Law snarled, motioning with a cocky flick of his hand.
The bigger of the two lunged first, aiming to grab Law's collar. With fluid ease, Law sidestepped the attempt, slipping out of reach, and retaliated with a sharp jab to the man's liver. The smaller one, quick as a serpent, darted behind Law and kicked him in the side. Law's body betrayed him, now sluggish and uncooperative. The first man seized the opening, unleashing a barrage of punches.
Law dodged and weaved, but the fight was slipping from his grasp. The smaller man kept circling, waiting for an opening. Soon, the two fighters seemed to move as one, coordinated and relentless.
Then, the tide turned. The larger man, overconfident, slipped slightly, his footing faltering. Seizing the moment, Law launched himself forward, raising his fist for an uppercut. But just as his fist was about to connect, the smaller attacker kicked out his leg, knocking Law to his knee.
On the ground, the larger man launched a brutal kick, aiming for Law's head. Law threw his arms up instinctively, absorbing the strike, and was driven to the dirt. Then, the third man, silent and unsteady, now rose from the dirtied ground, ready to join the chaos.