Hey, I'm Mike. Nobody special. Just your average guy who digs games and tries to survive the slums — or at least that's what I call this rat's nest.
I don't need to give you the whole sob story. You've heard lines like mine before — the "tough guy from the streets" spiel. But trust me, this ain't your usual crap.
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"Oi! Mike! Word is, you're the toughest bastard around here. True or nah?" The guy swaggered in — leather jacket, piercings gleaming like war trophies, eyes full of menace.
"That's what they say. What's it to you?" I shrugged, trying to keep it cool.
He laughed, a dark, ugly sound. "I'm running business here. You're in the way. My gang's growing, and I don't need some punk stealing my spotlight."
"Look, I don't give a damn about your gang or your turf. Just back off, and we won't have problems. I didn't ask for any title."
His grin twisted, sharp as a knife. "You're wrong, kid. I don't tolerate anyone with a scarier name than mine. No hard feelings — just gotta break a few bones to remind you who runs this shit. Boys, get him!"
The alley was tight, the air thick with the stench of sweat and rotting garbage. Leather jacket stepped forward, all teeth and menace, fists clenched like hammers ready to break my face.
His first punch was a bullet—fast, hard, meant to shatter. I barely dodged, feeling the wind rip past my cheek. No time to think, just react. My body moved on instinct.
I caught his wrist mid-swing, twisting sharply. The crack of his joint echoed like a gunshot. His eyes narrowed, hate burning hotter than the summer sun.
Before he could recover, I drove my elbow into his ribs. The sound was ugly—bone hitting bone, a sickening snap that stole his breath. He doubled over, but the fight was far from over.
His crew closed in like sharks sensing blood. A fist jabbed at my jaw—too fast. My head snapped back; teeth clashed. Blood trickled from the corner of my mouth, hot and metallic. No time to taste it.
I lunged forward, closing the distance, grabbing a thug by the collar. His face twisted in shock as my knuckles smashed into his nose. The crunch was satisfying—a raw punctuation in this brutal symphony.
A kick blasted into my thigh. Pain flared but I planted my foot hard, pushing through. Every second was a war in itself.
Another sucker swung low. I blocked, then countered with a savage uppercut. His head snapped back like a ragdoll. No mercy here.
Sweat stung my eyes as punches rained down, some grazing, others landing hard. My ribs burned where a fist had found home earlier, but adrenaline drowned the pain.
A thug charged, wild and reckless. I sidestepped, yanking him off balance, and slammed his head into a trash can. Metal dented; he crumpled with a grunt.
I grabbed a broken pipe lying nearby—rusted, jagged, deadly. The glint in the gang leader's eyes sharpened. He pulled a knife, silver flash cutting through the grime.
We clashed—pipe against blade—metal screaming in protest. He swung fast, sharp, aiming for my arm. I blocked, muscles screaming, heart hammering.
Blood blossomed on my forearm, pain sharp but distant. I swung the pipe wide, catching him in the ribs. The grunt he made was raw and guttural. No time to savor.
The fight was chaos—fists, metal, sweat, and pain mixing into a savage dance. One thug lunged at me, teeth bared. I ducked low, spinning, the pipe crashing into his knee. A snap echoed as he hit the ground.
Behind me, a fist crashed into my back. I twisted, grabbing the attacker's arm and wrenching it. A sick crack, and he dropped, clutching his injury.
Blood coated my skin—mine and theirs—making the world slippery, dangerous. I gasped, every breath burning in my lungs, but I kept moving, kept fighting.
The gang leader staggered back, wiping blood from his lip, eyes burning with rage and grudging respect.
"You're tougher than I thought," he snarled. "But this ends now."
He charged, knife flashing—a deadly blur. I met him head-on, pipe raised. We clashed again, metal against metal, sparks flying in the grim alley light.
Pain tore through my arm where the blade bit deep, but I gritted my teeth, refusing to fall.
I swung the pipe in a brutal arc, catching him across the side. He howled, stumbling back, wind knocked from his lungs.
I pressed the advantage, fists and pipe raining down. Every hit was a message: I don't back down.
Around us, the fight slowed, some thugs retreating, others too broken to move.
The leader dropped to his knees, chest heaving, eyes wild with defeat.
I stood over him, breath ragged, body screaming in protest, but spirit unbroken.
"Remember this," I spat. "You don't own these streets."
Silence fell, heavy and complete—until the distant wail of sirens sliced through the night.
I staggered out of the alley, every step a reminder that my body wasn't made for mercy. The city felt colder now, like it knew what I'd done — and wasn't impressed.
Ahead, the landlord stood by the cracked stairwell, his usual scowl in place.
"Hey Mike! When are yo—"
I cut him off by flinging the crumpled bills in his direction. They slapped against his chest, dirty and soaked with sweat and blood.
"That enough for you? Geez." My voice was rough, like gravel grinding under tired boots.
He blinked, caught off guard, then scoffed, pocketing the cash with a grunt.
I didn't wait for thanks or complaints. Just pushed past him, the dull ache in my ribs screaming as I limped toward my room.
The hallway light flickered, casting long shadows on peeling paint and cigarette burns etched in the walls.
Inside, I locked the door and dropped to the floor, ripping torn strips from an old shirt to bandage my ribs and busted knuckles.
I flopped onto the creaky bed, every rib screaming like I'd been punched by a freight train. The dull throb was a cruel reminder that this city didn't give second chances. My fingers brushed against the pack of cigarettes on the cracked nightstand. I pulled one out, flicked my lighter, and took a drag — and immediately regretted it. Mint? More like burning plastic. Movies straight up lied to me. Without a second thought, I flicked the half-smoked cigarette out the window where it hissed against the garbage below.
My room was barely lit by the flickering neon of a broken streetlamp filtering through the grimy window. I slapped my tired hands on the desk and booted up my rig. The hum of the old computer was like a heartbeat, comforting and alive in the suffocating silence.
Battle Arena blinked onto the screen, exploding in colors that felt like a shot of adrenaline to my bloodied brain. This was my sanctuary — a pixelated battlefield where I was untouchable, a monster of muscle, magic, and metal. No busted ribs. No gang leaders wanting to crack my skull for territory. Just pure, unfiltered power at my fingertips.
I navigated through the menus, feeling the familiar surge as my character loaded in — a towering tank, a "rook of all trades," though I liked to joke it was a "heavy jack of all trades, master of none." The truth was, I'd spent hours tweaking his stats, trial and error on every build option until I cracked the perfect mix of brute strength and tactical versatility. The guy was a damn beast — big, thick, and packing more weapons than a small army.
The game had no limits. Literally. I could stack weapons, skills, and magic like some mad scientist. It was chaotic, sure, but that's what I loved — the freedom to make my own rules in a world that barely gave me any outside this screen.
Scrolling through the character exchange menu, my favorite feature, my pulse quickened. This was the real gamble — the "slave exchange," as I called it, even though the game probably wouldn't get away with that terminology these days. Challengers risked everything — items, rare characters, even entire accounts — in high-stakes matches. Win or lose, no take-backs.
But the kicker? The "one-sided deal." I could challenge someone, and if I won, I took their prized possessions without risking mine. It was cutthroat, ruthless, and exactly the kind of thrill that kept me hooked late into the night.
I smirked, fingers flying over the keyboard as I queued for a match. The screen pulsed with energy, loading me into a massive arena where players clashed with brutal combos and explosive magic.
Each fight was a war of wills — a mind game wrapped in a fistfight. I threw punches, dodged spells, and called down thunderous strikes with practiced ease. The screen lit up with every heavy hit, the crunch of metal on metal echoed through my headphones, and my heart hammered with every narrow escape.
I was a god here. A titan stomping over weaklings and challengers alike. No pain, no limits — just pure dominance.
Not to brag but I was literally on top of the leaderboards since the game launched.and the best part even the players who spent a lot of money still got outclassed by me.
But even in this digital paradise, a part of me was restless. The echoes of the alley fight lingered — the taste of blood, the ache in my ribs, the low growls of the gang leader. The slums weren't a game. Real life was a savage fight with no respawns.
Still, this was mine. The one place I chose to be powerful.
Suddenly, a message popped up — a challenge from a mysterious player with an unknown tag.
I hesitated. Something about the name sent a cold shiver down my spine. No stats. No history. Just an empty, ominous question mark.
"Ready to lose it all?" the message blinked.
My fingers twitched over the keys. The stakes were insane — if I lost, my account was gone. Years of grinding, all wiped in one brutal match.
But something deeper stirred. This wasn't just a game anymore.
I accepted.
The screen faded to black.