Johnny fixed his gaze on Ace with an accusatory look, a sly smile curling on his lips, as if to say: "I told you so."
Ever since the investors had cut off funding for the orphanage, claiming that Ace lacked ambition, the boy had made it a habit to stop by the kitchen as soon as he returned from school. He would eat whatever he could find before heading out to earn money by means Johnny preferred not to know.
The United States liked to boast of being the land of freedom, but they would never allow a child to work. And for a kid to bring in enough money to keep an entire orphanage running was nearly impossible.
Johnny finally broke the silence.— "You're going back to that mysterious job again?" he asked, his voice heavy with sadness.
Ace merely shrugged.— "Yes, Dad."
He called Johnny that, even though he knew he wasn't his real father. But Johnny had raised him, and that was enough. Many families had wanted to adopt Ace, yet he had always refused. He wouldn't leave until he had repaid his debt. And now that the investors had turned their backs on the orphanage, he saw this trial as the perfect chance to do so.
He wasn't naive: those investors weren't benefactors, but corrupt profiteers who only sought to please future shareholders in order to secure a golden retirement. To them, Ace was nothing but a waste.
So he pushed himself to the limit. For his debt. For Johnny. For the children. And maybe, deep down, because he felt guilty for the loss of the subsidies.
Johnny understood what his foster son was trying to accomplish, but guilt gnawed at him. He should have been the one to bear this burden, not the boy. If he hadn't been bald, he knew his hair would already be white from the stress Ace caused him.
The silence stretched on until Johnny whispered:— "I'm sorry, son. Sorry for putting all this on you. You're destroying yourself to help me, while I just stand here, unable to lighten the weight of this orphanage. What a pitiful father I am…"
His wrinkled face tightened under the weight of shame. Fifteen years had passed, and only time had carved deeper lines into his skin and turned his beard entirely white, making him resemble a weary Santa Claus.
Ace looked at him for a long moment before smiling, sincere.— "If you're not a good father, then who is? I'll never thank you enough for taking me in when you didn't have to. So if there's anything I can do for you, I'll do it without hesitation."
He ended his sentence by biting into his piece of bread.
A flicker of pride lit Johnny's eyes. But before he could reply, a scream echoed from the main hall. He started, then quickly composed himself and slipped away, muttering an apology to Ace.
Left alone, the boy finished a few more bites before heading up to his room.
The plastered white walls held six simple beds. Five of them were decorated with posters of athletes or musicians. Only Ace's remained bare, austere.
He knelt down, pulled a briefcase from under his bed, and locked the door before opening it. Inside were neatly folded bandages. Ace removed his sweatshirt and t-shirt. His torso, athletic like that of a professional athlete, bore the scars of his double life: bruises and welts spread across his skin. He changed his bandages, put the case away, and dressed again.
Silent as a shadow, he slipped out of the room, then out of the orphanage. A few subway stations and a long walk later, he stopped in front of a sushi restaurant.
He entered and stepped up to the counter.— "What will it be, sir?" asked the chef.— "Four maki without seaweed and five sushi without salmon. To protect nature," Ace replied, expressionless.— "For here or delivery?"— "Delivery."
The chef tapped at his register and handed him a receipt. Ace took it, stepped outside, and read the address written on it. Ten minutes later, he stood before a massive abandoned warehouse.
The rusty door creaked as he pushed it open. The stench of metal and sweat hit him immediately. A shiver ran through him, a familiar sensation. As if, instead of entering this sordid place, he were walking into a homecoming embrace.
But this wasn't a home. It was a clandestine fight club.
The arena, encircled by safety barriers, was bathed in the harsh glare of white spotlights, as cold as those in a laboratory. The floor was stained with the dried blood of countless fights.
Ace took it all in, and an innocent smile crept across his lips. The same smile a child wears when handed a piece of candy.