New York never truly sleeps.
Even as the night deepens, the city continues to breathe—
alive with lights, sounds, and restless energy.
Midtown. Lexington Avenue.
Towering buildings stand on both sides, their glass walls reflecting countless lights—like a thousand stars trapped in the city.
Taxi horns echo through the streets.
The distant rumble of the subway vibrates beneath the ground.
Footsteps pass by in a hurry.
Some people talk on their phones.
Some stand with a cup of coffee in hand.
And some… walk through the crowd carrying their loneliness silently.
But just a little away from the noise—
Everything changes.
The chaos fades.
The sounds grow distant.
And there, standing in quiet contrast to the restless city—
Is an old yet elegant mansion.
Roy Mansion.
Under the dim glow of streetlights, the house looks even more serious… almost mysterious.
It feels like the walls are hiding secrets.
Like the windows have seen things that were never meant to be told.
Outside, the city keeps running.
But inside this house—
Time feels… frozen.
Suddenly—
A car stops in front of the mansion.
The door opens.
And a young man steps out.
Around 24 or 25.
Dressed in a white t-shirt, a black leather jacket, dark blue jeans, and boots.
His hair is styled neatly with gel.
His sharp features and fair complexion make him stand out effortlessly.
At first glance—
Anyone would notice one thing.
He isn't just handsome.
There's something… different about him.
A calm confidence.
A hidden edge.
He walks straight inside the mansion without hesitation.
As he reaches the stairs—
An older man approaches him hurriedly.
"Arre, Sid sahab! Babujii ghar pe nahi hai."
Sid stops.
"What? A.R isn't home?"
"When did he leave?"
The man lowers his head slightly.
"Sahab shaam ko nikle… kahan gaye—malum nahi."
Sid exhales in irritation.
"Did he say anything before leaving?"
"Nahi, sahab…"
"Fine. I'll handle it."
Sid turns to leave—
But the man calls him again.
"Sid sahab… ek minute."
He looks back, slightly annoyed.
"What now, Haran kaka?"
"Malik apna phone ghar pe chhod diye the… yeh le jaiye."
Sid takes the phone.
"And sahab… isme bahut calls aaye the. Aap dekh lijiye."
"Alright."
Just then—
The phone starts ringing again.
On the screen—
"Thammi"
Sid freezes for a second.
"Oh great… just what I feared."
He hesitates.
"What do I even say now? Where the hell is Ayan…"
The call stops.
He sighs in relief.
"Saved…"
But immediately—
The phone rings again.
Same name.
This time, he nervously answers.
"Hello—"
"Arre Ayan! Where have you been?"
A familiar voice speaks from the other side.
"It's me, Arjun."
Sid instantly relaxes.
"Oh thank God, it's you!"
"I thought Thammi picked up!"
Arjun pauses.
"Wait… what?"
"Yeah yeah, it's me—Sid."
"Listen, don't tell Thammi anything right now."
"Ayan isn't home. He left his phone here."
"What?!"
"I'll find him. Just don't say anything, please."
There's a brief silence.
Then Arjun sighs.
"Fine… but you better find him fast."
"Yeah, yeah. I will."
"Okay. Call me later."
The call ends.
Sid lets out a deep breath.
"Idiot Ayan…"
"Leaving everyone worried and going off to fight somewhere…"
His jaw tightens.
"Wait till I find you today…"
Without wasting another second—
He walks out of the mansion.
Meanwhile—
Somewhere deep inside New York's restless night—
There exists a place far from normal life.
A place filled with sweat, rage, and raw desire to win.
Brooklyn Fight Club.
The atmosphere is heated.
The crowd is loud.
Fights are happening one after another.
Money is being exchanged.
People are shouting, betting, losing, winning.
And inside the ring—
One name dominates everything.
Marcus "Iron Fist."
He stands tall.
Sweat dripping down his body.
But there's no sign of exhaustion.
Only pride.
Only arrogance.
One fighter after another—
Falls before him.
The crowd roars—
"ONE MORE! ONE MORE!"
Marcus smirks.
"Is there anyone left…"
"…who thinks they can stand against me?"
Silence.
For a moment.
Then—
From the side of the ring—
Someone stands up.
A figure in a black hoodie.
Head lowered.
Face hidden.
He walks forward slowly.
Step by step.
The crowd barely notices him at first.
But then—
He steps into the ring.
And speaks.
"You talk too much…"
"…for someone who hasn't faced me yet."
The entire place goes silent.
Slowly—
He removes his hood.
Ayan.
No smile.
No excitement.
Only calm.
His dark brown eyes remain steady.
Unshaken.
As if—
This chaos means nothing to him.
As if—
He came here for something else.
Not money.
Not fame.
But something deeper.
Marcus laughs.
"Alright, kid… let's see what you've got."
The fight is about to begin.
And Ayan—
He doesn't rush.
He doesn't attack.
He waits.
Because this fight—
Is not against Marcus.
It's against himself.
Suddenly—
Marcus throws a powerful punch straight toward Ayan's face—
And then—
To be continued…