The next morning, the world felt different. The light of the sun was harsher, the shadows longer. As the protagonist trudged through the streets, the world felt like it was on the verge of cracking, as if the seams between realities were beginning to unravel, and he was stuck somewhere in between.
His body was sore—his muscles screamed in protest with each step, a sharp reminder of the brutal fight that had ended only hours ago. The blood from the fight had dried on his skin, and though he'd tried to wash off the worst of it, there was still a sticky residue under his clothes. The deep cuts along his arms and face were tender but healing, each one a grim reminder of how close he had come to dying in that underground hellhole.
The streets around him buzzed with the usual sounds of a busy city—horns honking, people talking, the distant hum of traffic—but none of it felt real. His feet carried him forward, but his mind was still trapped in the arena, reliving every punch, every kick, and the terrifying realization that the world he knew had somehow changed.
What did that voice mean?
The voice on the phone. The beginning?
He'd barely slept after the call. Thoughts of the fight and the chilling words of the stranger kept him awake, pacing his small apartment in a restless frenzy. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming for him—something worse than the fight, something far more dangerous. But what? Who was behind all this?
He didn't know. But he was determined to find out.
His mind kept circling back to the figure who had attacked him after the fight, to the warning they had given him. "You've made your first mark."
What did that even mean?
The wind picked up, cutting through his jacket as he moved down the street. His thoughts were interrupted when his phone buzzed again, startling him. His thumb hovered over the screen as he checked the number.
Unknown.
He hesitated for only a moment before answering. "Hello?"
"Nice to see you've made it through the night," the same distorted voice said, its tone dripping with amusement. "I see you're still alive. That's a good start."
"Who the hell are you?" he snapped, frustration boiling up. "What's going on?"
The voice chuckled, and it was more unsettling than comforting. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. But you've got a lot to learn. And you'll be learning quickly, whether you like it or not."
The protagonist's pulse quickened, and he leaned against a building, trying to steady his breathing. "I don't want anything to do with whatever this is."
There was a long pause on the other end, as if the voice was considering his words. "You don't get to choose. You're already in it, kid. You're marked. They're watching. And if you think you can just walk away, think again."
"Who's watching me?" he demanded, panic creeping into his voice. "What do you want from me?"
The voice's tone shifted, becoming more serious. "I told you. You've made your mark. Now you have to survive. The arena was just the beginning, but there's much more to this game than just fighting."
His stomach turned. "What game? What are you talking about?"
A low laugh crackled over the line. "You'll see soon enough. Keep your eyes open. You'll be tested again. And this time, it won't be just your life at stake."
Before he could respond, the line went dead, leaving him with only the hollow sound of the dial tone in his ear.
He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, trying to make sense of the conversation. What did he mean by "they're watching"?
A shiver ran down his spine. He'd always known the city had its dark corners, places where power operated in the shadows, where the rules were written by those who held the strings. But this felt different. This wasn't just some underground fight club. There was a bigger force at work here—something that had its eyes on him, tracking his every move.
And worse yet, he had no idea who "they" were, or what they wanted from him.
"Damn it." He swore under his breath. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. No more waiting. He needed answers, and he needed them now.
His thoughts were interrupted when a sharp crack echoed through the street, followed by a cold, unnerving voice from behind.
"Looking for answers?"
The protagonist spun around, his heart skipping a beat. Standing in the shadows of a nearby alleyway was a tall figure, their features hidden beneath a dark hoodie. The dim light barely illuminated the figure, but their presence was imposing, like a storm waiting to unleash.
"Who the hell are you?" the protagonist demanded, his instincts telling him to be ready to fight, but his mind was already racing with the possibility that this wasn't another random attacker.
The figure stepped forward, their movements smooth, almost fluid. "You've been marked. And now, it's time to choose a side."
Marked? The word sent a chill through him.
The figure's eyes glinted in the darkness, cold and calculating. "There's more to the game than you think. The arena is only one small part of it. The true game begins when you choose which path you're going to walk."
The protagonist took a step back, trying to process the weight of the words. "What the hell are you talking about? I don't want any part of this."
A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of the figure's lips. "You're already in it, whether you like it or not. And soon enough, you'll realize you have no choice."
Before the protagonist could respond, the figure turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving him standing in the street, his mind spinning.
This isn't over. Not by a long shot.
The feeling of being hunted lingered in the air, pressing down on him like a heavy weight. The game had begun, and there was no way out now.