The ceiling leaked. Again.
Reese stared up at the brown stain spreading across the plaster above his bed, listening to the rhythmic plop of water hitting a half-filled bucket. He lay still, eyes open, fists clenched. The cold of the room bit at his skin, but he was used to it. He had grown up in this kind of cold.
Down the hall, he heard his mother coughing—again, probably from the night shift at the diner. In the next room, his sister Layla was likely curled up in a coat for warmth, scrolling job listings on her cracked phone screen. College had never been a real option. Not for people like them.
Reese closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Tomorrow, rent was due. And they didn't have it.
They never had enough.
His mom worked two jobs—morning till evening at a clinic desk and nights at the diner. Even then, the bills stayed red. Food came from dollar stores and donation boxes. Layla had been offered a spot in university once—he remembered the look in her eyes when she got the letter—but that died fast when the costs came into view. Reese tried not to blame himself for that.
He used to ask about his father. Where he went. Why he left. His mother never answered, just looked out the window with tears she thought he didn't see. So he stopped asking. The man didn't matter anymore. Only surviving did.
Still, he hated feeling useless. He hated lying in bed knowing his mom was aging twice as fast and Layla was swallowing her dreams.
That's when he made his choice.
The Crucible.
He'd heard the whispers. A brutal underground fight club run beneath the shell of an old subway station. No rules, no mercy, but fast money. Winners walked out with bloodied knuckles and fat envelopes. A thousand dollars for a single win. That was more than his mother made in two weeks.
The only catch? You had to survive.
Reese had been boxing for years—one of the few free programs at school that kept him sane. He trained religiously, learned fast, and added in street brawling when the schoolyard got too real. His knuckles bore the calluses of hard work and harder hits. But he'd never fought for his life. Not yet.
That would change tonight.
He pulled on his hoodie and grabbed the old gym bag with his wraps and gloves. At the door, Layla stopped him.
"Where are you going?" she asked, eyes tired but sharp.
"Gym," he lied.
She raised an eyebrow. "At 10 p.m.?"
He shrugged. "Coach gave me keys."
She didn't believe him. He knew she didn't. But she let him go anyway.
The subway was dead. Rusting. Graffiti-covered. A skeleton of the city's past. Reese made his way down the cracked steps, heart pounding. The faint sound of bass echoed through the underground tunnels. He followed it.
Waiting near a sealed service door was Michael—Reese's friend since middle school and low-key genius. Tech nerd, hacker, ghost online. If it had wires, Michael could break it.
"You're sure about this?" Michael asked, arms crossed, hoodie zipped up to the chin.
"Got no choice."
Michael handed him a card. Black. No name. Just a jagged silver logo—The Crucible.
"They'll let you in with this. You're on the card for tonight. Last-minute sub. They call it 'blood baptism.'"
Reese nodded.
"You win," Michael said, "you get a grand. You lose… well, you still get to breathe if you're lucky."
Reese smirked. "Thanks for the confidence."
Michael didn't smile back. "Look, I know you've fought before. But this ain't gloves and bells. This is raw. These people are wolves, man. And the guy you're up against…"
Reese waited.
"Name's Kai," Michael said. "Newbie like you—but he's already on a five-fight win streak. Never knocked out. Fast. Precise. Silent. Some say he used to fight for gangs in Asia before coming here. He doesn't play around."
Reese blew air through his nose. "So I'm the underdog."
Michael sighed. "You're the bait."
The door creaked open. Music and sweat hit Reese like a wave. Dim lights flickered overhead. The air stank of rust and testosterone. Concrete walls were painted in graffiti and blood. A circle in the center, surrounded by rows of yelling spectators, marked the ring.
No ropes. No mats. Just fists and pain.
Reese stepped in, jaw clenched.
He registered with the pit boss—a bulky man with more tattoos than teeth—and got directed to the locker room. It wasn't much. Just benches, cracked mirrors, and blood-stained towels.
He wrapped his hands, slid into his boots, and paced. Every nerve fired. Every breath burned. But his mind was still.
This was for Mom. For Layla. For not being useless anymore.
A bell rang. The pit boss appeared. "You're up, newbie. Let's see if you bleed."
Reese walked out.
The crowd roared. Some booed. Some laughed. They bet on pain, not people.
Then came the other fighter.
Kai.
He was lean, shirtless, and calm. His arms were covered in faded scars. His expression unreadable. He stepped into the ring like he'd done it a hundred times. No hype. No fear. Just presence.
Reese felt something tighten in his gut.
Kai looked at him. Not with malice. Not with arrogance. Just... curiosity. And something else. Like he recognized something in Reese.
The pit boss raised his hand.
"No rules. No rounds. You drop, you lose. You run, you're banned. You kill, you clean it up yourself."
The crowd laughed.
The bell rang.