The air was crisp as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the empty streets. Ethan Nakamura walked at his usual pace, the slight tremor in his hands barely noticeable to anyone but himself. The once bright promise of his life had dimmed, but the routine of walking these streets provided some comfort. He was used to the discomfort now—the numbness in his fingers, the slight unsteadiness in his legs. It had been years since his injury, but it still felt fresh in his mind.

He could still remember the roar of the crowd on the night that changed his life. He had just won the most important fight of his career, a technical knockout. His opponent was on the ground, unable to continue. Victory was his, and with it, the promise of something bigger—a path to the championships, fame, and recognition.

But just as he was basking in the glory, his opponent, enraged by the loss, delivered a cheap shot to the back of his head. The blow came out of nowhere, unseen by the referees and officials. The pain had been immediate, like a thunderclap exploding in his skull. The world tilted violently, and then… darkness.

He woke up in the hospital, his body betraying him. The diagnosis was brutal: a severe brain injury. His coordination was shot, his hands shook uncontrollably, and the numbness that crept through his limbs never left. His dreams of being a professional fighter were over in that moment.

The settlement money from the lawsuit helped, though. He wasn't angry—anger required energy he no longer had. He used the money to open a gym, to teach others what he could no longer do. His strict but supportive parents, particularly his Japanese mother, stood by his side as he transitioned from fighter to coach. His father, a retired Marine with a limp from his own war, understood the pain of lost potential but never let Ethan fall into despair.

The gym gave Ethan purpose. It wasn't fighting in the ring, but it was something. He had trained some good fighters over the years. One of his younger fighters had even introduced him to anime, giving him something else to escape into. He became a fan, and through that world, he found a strange comfort—a way to live through the stories of characters who fought battles of their own.

Then came the betrayal. Ryan, his most promising student, the one Ethan had invested so much time and effort in, had finally made it to the big leagues. But the gratitude Ethan had expected never came. Ryan had left him for a wealthier gym with more resources and connections. It was business, Ethan knew that. But it still hurt. Deep down, it felt personal, even if it wasn't.

Shaking the memories from his mind, Ethan continued down the quiet street. The rhythmic sound of his shoes on the pavement matched the steady beat of his heart. He could hear his father's voice in his head, the same words he had heard all his life: "You fall, you get back up."

But tonight, something felt off. He couldn't quite place it until he heard the scream.

Instinct kicked in before thought. Ethan's body, despite its limitations, moved on muscle memory alone. Rounding the corner, he saw her—a woman struggling in the grip of a large man. The thug, towering and broad, had her pinned against the side of a building. Fear radiated from her in waves as she fought to break free.

Without hesitation, Ethan rushed forward, his heart pounding. His coordination wasn't what it used to be, but he had learned how to make do with what he had. He grabbed the thug's arm, pulling him off the woman. She stumbled backward, eyes wide with terror, but managed to slip free and run.

The brute turned his attention to Ethan, sneering. "You should've stayed out of this, old man," he growled, his voice thick with disdain.

Ethan didn't respond. His body was tense, every muscle screaming for control. His hands shook, his legs unsteady, but his mind was clear. He could still fight—he had to.

The first punch came fast, too fast for Ethan to dodge cleanly. It grazed his jaw, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his skull. He stumbled, his balance off-kilter, but he stayed on his feet. His father's voice echoed in his mind again: "You get back up."

The second punch came like a freight train, straight to his ribs. Ethan doubled over, gasping for breath as the world spun around him. He couldn't get back up this time. His body, battered and worn, wouldn't respond.

The thug kicked him hard in the side, and Ethan felt a sharp crack. His ribs—at least one, maybe more—had broken. The pain was distant now, dulled by the overwhelming sense of failure. He lay on the cold pavement, vision darkening. He could hear the woman's footsteps fading in the distance as she ran, her life spared.

That was enough.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision. The world was fading fast, his mind slipping into the darkness that waited for him. His father's voice, one last time: "You fall, you get back up."

But not this time.

Ethan's vision went black.

In the void of death, there was no pain. No sound. No sensation.

But then… a flicker. A spark. A pull from the depths of nothingness. Something reached out to him, tugging at the edges of his awareness.

He opened his eyes, gasping for air that wasn't there.

This wasn't his world.