The city was quiet at dawn, the streets except for the sound of worn-out sneakers slapping against cracked concrete as he jogged through the backstreets of the city. No music. Just breath and heartbeat. Sweat clung to his forehead even though the sun hadn't yet broken the skyline.
Leon didn't run for fitness. He ran to feel something.
To chase the silence before the storm.
His phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket. He slowed, checked the screen, Jerome (Agent), and groaned
"Yo" Leon muttered, not breaking stride.
Jerome's voice crackled through, upbeat but firm. "You ready? Today's your last shot, bro. They're calling it your final tryout. Win this, and maybe the "Big Boys Club" takes you seriously. Lose, well…. You know what that means."
"I know" Leon cut in. His tone was flat, but his chest tightened.
He didn't need the reminder. Nine fights. Nine loses. Not once has his hand been raised at the end. He was the guy with heart but no real talent.
He'd tried everything. Kickboxing, taekwondo, Muay Thai, and even the famous Nigeria local wrestling (Mgba) always the same outcome. He was the guy, the one who gave everything and still came up short.
Even his late dad, "the Ghosthand", never made it pro. His father loved combat. Lived for it. Died with nothing to show for it. Leon remembered the arguments at home, his mother's voice sharp with frustration.
"You come home bleeding every week for what? To die chasing a dream you ain't built for?"
His father never yelled back. He just ice his knuckles and stare at the floor.
Leon hated those arguments.
Because now, years later, both of them were gone. His mom from illness. His dad, heart attack after a street fight he was too old to be in.
And now Leon is running the same bloody circle.
Maybe it was in his blood.
By the time the sun began to climb over the rooftops, Leon was jogging back toward his apartment. His legs felt heavy, but not from the distance. It was the weight of the night ahead pressing into every step.
The city was waking up around him, shop shuttters clattering open, delivery trucks groaning through narrow streets. He kept his hood up, head down, letting the noise fade into the background.
By the time he reached his building, his shirt clung to him with sweat, his breath slow and uneven. He glanced at the cracked wall clock in the kitchen, still hours before nightfall. Hours to sit in silence, to let your anxiety grow, to think about what tonight meant.
Later That Night Underground Arena.
The cage reeked of sweet and blood. The crowd was pressed in close, their faces shadowed under dim light, their eyes gleaming with hunger for violence.
"Next up.. the man with nine straight losses….
Leoooon" the announcer boomed.
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone shouted, "Make it ten!"
Leon stepped into the cage, hoodie up, fists taped. He kept his eyes on the mat, not the face. Across from him stood a mountain of a man with dead eyes with tattoos creeping up his neck.
The bell rang.
What followed wasn't a fight. It was a beating.
The first punch stole his breath, the second blurred his vision. Every strike was hammer; every kick, a sledge to the ribs. Leon tried to fight back, threw jabs. Duck, move, strike. But nothing landed clean. Every blow he threw was answered by one ten times harder. Ribs cracked. Blood sprayed. His vision blurred. His legs gave way.
And then a kick to the temple.
The world spun sideways.
Darkness
Time slowed. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, then slow, then fainter still.
Image began to flicker inthe black, his father's hands, swollen and scarred. His mother's tired eyes. The promise he'd made to be great. Every hour in the gym, every bruise, every moment he pushed himself thinking this would be the time it paid off.
"How did it come to this?"
He felt cold. The kind of cold that whispered finality. Death was reaching for him.
…..
Warmth.
Sunlight filtered gently through the window. Casting a warm glow across the room.
Leon eyes fluttered open to a soft golden glow. Above him stretched a high ceiling painted in intricate patterns, each stroke catching the light. The bed beneath him was massive, the frame carved from pure gold. On the table table beside him sat cups studded with emeralds.
How did i get here, he whispered, his voice almost steady. Then it struck him, perhaps it only sounded different because of the punches he'd taken last night.
He stared for a long moment before muttering aloud, "Huh…. So when you get beaten almost to death, they treat you with beautiful things. Does that mean I need to take more beatings to wake up like this every morning?"
He let out a weak laugh. But the he froze.
Why don't I feel pain from last night? No broken ribs screaming at him. No jaw aching from that first punch. In fact…. my body felt better than it had in years.
He swung his legs over to the side of the bed and spotted a full length mirror across the room.
He was frightened by the young boy on the mirror..
The boy staring back at him was a stranger, his jawline cut like it had been carved from stone, short dark hair falling in windswept strands that seemed to shift with an unseen breeze. Eyes of burnished bronze glowed faintly. The gaze was powerless.
"That's… not me," Leon whispered, though the reflection did not look away.
What on earth is happening? He muttered with disbelief.
He tried to think of everything possible scenario that could explain his current situation. Did the Big Boys Club do something to me after the fight?
Before he could process it, a soft female voice broke the silence from behind the door.
"Permission to enter,Young Master"
He turned sharply toward the door
A young woman stepped in, dark hair neatly tied,wearing a crisp maid's uniform. Her voice was calm but her presence was different.
"I.. hope I'll be fine be fine" he muttered under his breath. But in his guts, a cold weight settled.