Cities taste different at night. Only those who've lived more than they've slept know the flavor. In the daylight, people pass sidewalks with indifference—but at night... the sidewalks seem to breathe, twisting under the feet of those fleeing from their pasts. The air is cold, but not innocent. Night air knows secrets, and it conspires only against the poor.
Eli stood in front of his crumbling house, tying the worn laces of his battered shoes. Plastic bags fluttered around him, and through his broken window echoed the familiar bickering of old neighbors. He looked down at his bike—his companion in silence—rusted, creaking like a camel being butchered slowly. With a focused hand, he adjusted the chain, then mounted it with what seemed like confidence.
But in this neighborhood, confidence guaranteed nothing.
The moment the front wheel rolled forward, it betrayed him. He lost balance and kissed the air before crashing onto the ground.
"Damn it! Not now..."
He rose, muttering curses. He glared at the bike like a man looking at an old traitor he knows will betray him again. With a sigh, he wiped the dirt from his face and tried to fix the chain again, only for it to snap off, covering his hand in thick black grease—mocking him.
He gently struck the handlebar, sighed, and pulled out his phone.
It rang once. Twice.
"Oh wow, a living creature calling me at 9 PM?"
"The bike's dead. If you don't come, I'll have to walk forty minutes and miss the fight."
"Man... I promised myself not to start the car tonight. Every part makes its own musical note. It's like driving with a broken orchestra!"
"Josh, please. If I'm late, they'll think I backed out. I might lose my spot."
Josh paused, then exhaled.
"Alright, alright… let me look for the keys—which, for some reason, I always leave in the fridge."
Eli ended the call with a long sigh—a sigh of a man carrying the weight of quiet defeats.
Ten minutes later, a black car crept into the street, moving like it leaned on a cane. Its back door dangled like a dog's exhausted tongue, and its headlights glowed weakly—like a teenager who hasn't slept in a week.
The car stopped beside him. Josh's voice floated out:
"Get in quick before the cops realize this junk is still running!"
Eli pulled the door. It got stuck. He kicked it three times before it closed.
"Wasn't this car blue?"
"It was. I painted it black to sell it. The only guy who showed interest was a cop."
Eli chuckled—for the first time all day. A faint, short laugh. But real.
They drove through streets where trees bent like elders and lights went out for no reason. Silence reigned, broken only by the engine's dying hum, until they reached an old warehouse on the city's edge.
The place looked like the skeleton of a forgotten era. Cracked walls, a roof groaning under dust. Inside, yellow lights dangled from wires like snakes, and in the center stood the ring—an island defying decay.
The crowd was a bizarre collage:
Men with facial tattoos. Women wearing sunglasses despite the night. Teenagers screaming like they were at a forbidden concert. And in the far corner of the front row sat an old man in a long brown coat, his eyes locked on the ring. He didn't clap. He didn't whisper. As if the noise didn't reach him.
Eli entered the back room, stripped off his shirt, and silently pulled on his gloves.
Josh came in, skimming through the paper in his hand:
"Same plan. First fight, you fall in round two. Second, you win by knockout. Third... you lose. Got it? No improvising."
Eli nodded without looking at him. His face was lost in something else—something he hadn't understood yet.
🥊 Round One
Eli stepped into the ring to a mix of cheers and mockery. He didn't wave. Didn't smile. Just stood there, like the shadow of a man, not the man himself.
His opponent was a giant. Shoulders like doors. A face chiseled with axes. The bell rang.
The giant moved slowly, each step shaking the floor. A left swing—Eli dodged. A right—he blocked. But a sudden jab hit his left shoulder—the same shoulder that once failed him.
Pain. But he didn't scream. He stepped back. Then again. Then fell.
The referee counted to eight... but Eli didn't get up. Cheers, laughter, boos.
The old man? Still. Like stone. No clap. No expression. Like he was waiting for something else.
🥊 Round Two
The next opponent was slim, moved like a cat. The bell rang. They circled.
Eli danced lighter now. Dodged a punch. Landed one to the ribs. In the third minute, he saw the chance—an uppercut to the jaw. The man dropped.
Roars. Claps. The arena exploded.
Eli exited the ring, heading toward the back... but suddenly, the old man stood in his path.
His voice wasn't loud—but it pierced through the chaos like a blade:
"I've heard of a new fighter... Carter? Or was it Eli? Names stick—especially when they come from the past."
Eli froze. Stared at him.
"Who are you? How do you know me?"
The old man gave a pale smile and pulled an old photo from his coat. A child stood beside a towering man in a boxing trainer's uniform.
"That's you... isn't it? You had something real. Something you can't buy."
Eli hesitated, took the photo. Looked. A small gym. Maybe ten years ago.
"I thought I'd forgotten that face..."
"You didn't forget. You buried it. You fight tonight under dim lights, choosing when to fall... and when to win. But you're not fighting. You're just a shadow. A faded version of who you were."
Eli spoke quietly:
"I don't know who I am anymore."
The old man's gaze was firm, yet warm:
"Maybe it's time you found out."
Eli stood still. Photo in hand. Eyes locked with a past that never really died.
The walls faded. The ring vanished. Everything shrank—except that one sentence: "Maybe it's time you found out."
He walked back to the locker room slowly. No one asked where he'd been. He didn't offer. He stood before the mirror. Stared at his worn-out face. Sweat dripped, but he didn't wipe it.
Josh walked in:
"Final round. Like we said—you lose. Stick to the plan."
Eli was silent. No answer. He looked at the mirror. Then the photo in his hand. Then his face again.
Who am I? Why am I here? Should I lose… like always? Or…