Everything has a beginning. Ours was a scorching summer—the kind where the heat reached its peak, turning Karachi into a giant oven. In that densely populated, sweltering city where I grew up, even the slightest touch burned your skin. The streets were deserted, like a ghost town—ironic, considering how many people were crammed into that place.
When the weather got like this, the electric company always chose that exact moment to "fix" something. The power was out. No fans, no breeze, just suffocating humidity and stressed-out adults. All of this was too much for two twelve-year-olds to bear.
Our only escape? The streets.
We walked like we owned them. The stray dogs, usually a menace, were hiding under cars. The cats had vanished. Even the trees looked sickly, their leaves turning an unnatural yellow, as if the heat was sucking the life out of them.
And then there were us—two idiots. Me: skinny, tall, and beet-red from the sun. And Dabi: short, fat, and perpetually brown from squatting in the dirt, watching ants all day.
We stood in an empty plot next to an under-construction house, staring at a pile of discarded ceramic tiles. Boredom had taken hold.
Finally, I broke the silence. "Dabi, I bet I can break two tiles with my fist."
Dabi smirked. "Let me get those tiles."
With a single strike—"AHHHH YA!"—the tile split cleanly in two, each half now in Dabi's hands. A bolt of excitement shot through us.
"I can break three at once!" Dabi shouted.
Those words struck something primal in us. Before we knew it, we were smashing tiles one after another, pushing our limits. Four tiles became the max—any more, and my knuckles started bleeding.
Then, from the corner of our eyes, we noticed him—a scrawny kid with long hair, wheat-brown skin, and dark circles under his eyes. He looked weak, but there was a weird confidence in the way he watched us.
"Come here, Bram!" I called. "We're doing Kung Fu!"
Without hesitation, Bram was beside us. "What are the rules? How do we play?"
"No rules," Dabi declared, flexing his bruised fist. "Just fists. Break as many as you can. My record is five. Sherry here's a weakling—only four."
Bram's eyes gleamed. "Hold six, Sherry. I'm second to none."
And just like that, an event of MEN began—where no actual men were present, just a bunch of boys breaking tiles with their bare hands.