The air in the underground colosseum hung thick with the mingling scents of sweat, blood, and cheap tobacco. A cacophony of voices filled the vast chamber, blending cheers of triumph with groans of disappointment as gamblers counted their losses or clutched their unexpected winnings.
The dim lighting flickered sporadically, casting jagged shadows across the grimy walls. The fight was over, but the electricity in the atmosphere lingered, an unshakable testament to the spectacle everyone had just witnessed.
Eren, his body marked with fresh bruises and the sheen of sweat, moved with a deliberate calmness that contrasted sharply with the chaos around him. His strides were steady but not without effort; his muscles screamed in protest with each step, a reminder of the punishment he had endured.
Yet his presence was commanding. The crowd, still abuzz with shock and admiration, instinctively parted as he made his way toward the betting table. Conversations hushed as heads turned to follow him, whispers of speculation trailing in his wake.
"Did you see the way he just… stood there?" one voice murmured in awe.
"Marcus couldn't put him down. How's that even possible?" another chimed in, disbelief thick in their tone.
Eren ignored them all, his focus unwavering as he reached the table where the fight club's bet collector, a burly man with slicked-back hair and a perpetual sneer, sat.
A cigarette dangled precariously from the man's lips, its ash threatening to fall onto the stack of cash resting on the stained wood before him. His face twisted into a scowl the moment he noticed Eren approaching.
"You're here for your winnings, I suppose," the collector grumbled, his voice gravelly and rough, as though sandpaper scraped against his throat.
Eren's eyes, cold and piercing, locked onto the man. He spoke with the precision of a blade slicing through flesh.
"Ten to one. I bet fifty ks. You owe me five hundred ks."
The room seemed to still for a moment, the weight of his words pressing down on the space. The collector's lips twitched, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the table as he scrutinized Eren.
His calculating gaze swept over the fighter, lingering on the bruises blooming across his skin and the steady rise and fall of his chest. The cash, neatly stacked beside him, glinted in the dim light, but he made no move to hand it over.
"You fooled everyone out there," the manager finally said, his tone laced with accusation. His lips curled into a bitter sneer.
"Walking into the pit looking like some nobody. Letting Marcus batter you like a ragdoll before pulling off… whatever the hell that was."
Eren's expression didn't waver.
"I didn't fool anyone. They fooled themselves," he replied, his voice devoid of emotion but heavy with intent.
The manager leaned forward, the cigarette in his mouth flaring as he took a slow drag. He exhaled a plume of smoke into the narrow space between them, his eyes narrowing further.
"You know, most people here aren't looking for fighters like you. They're looking for heroes, underdogs. Something to believe in."
"And yet," Eren countered, his tone like a winter's chill, "here you are, running a den of bloodsport. I'll take my winnings now."
The tension crackled like an overdrawn bowstring. Five hundred thousand dollars was no small amount, even in the fight club's world of high stakes and dangerous games.
The manager hesitated, his pride and practicality warring within him. But in the end, money spoke louder than ego. With a frustrated sigh, he pushed the stack of bills across the table.
"Here. Take it," he spat.
"Don't think this means you can just waltz in here and clean me out again."
Eren's hand moved with deliberate calm as he gathered the bills, his movements precise and devoid of greed. The murmur of voices around him grew louder, envious eyes burning holes into his back as spectators took notice of his payday. The collector leaned back in his chair, a thin smile stretching his lips despite the bitterness behind it.
"Tell me something," he said, his voice carrying a hint of grudging respect.
"Was this a one-time thing? Or should I expect you again?"
Eren allowed a faint smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth.
"Maybe," he said, his tone inscrutable. "That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether or not you can produce fighters like Marcus," Eren replied, the subtle arrogance in his voice cutting deeper than any blade.
The manager bristled, his jaw tightening, but he held his tongue. After all, the man standing before him wasn't someone to provoke lightly.
The crowd's whispers had already elevated Eren into a legend of sorts, and even the manager had to admit he was curious to see what the enigmatic fighter would do next.
"Fine," the manager finally said, forcing a thin smile.
"Come back in three days. I'll have an opponent ready for you."
Eren nodded once, his response wordless but final. Without sparing another glance at the table or the crowd still buzzing around him, he turned and began his exit. The murmur of voices followed him, a mixture of awe, speculation, and grudging respect.
As he made his way toward the exit, a prickle of unease crept up his spine. From the shadowy recesses of one corner, a figure observed him intently.
They were shrouded in darkness, their face obscured, but their presence was unmistakable—a heavy, unsettling weight in the air. They didn't move, didn't speak, only tracked Eren with an intensity that made his skin crawl.
Eren paused briefly at the exit, his sharp gaze sweeping across the dimly lit room. The shadows remained still, their secrets well-guarded, and no immediate threat presented itself. With a soft exhale, he dismissed the feeling and stepped out into the cool night air.
---
The climb up the stairs to his apartment felt endless, every step a trial against the crushing fatigue that weighed him down. The adrenaline that had fueled him during the fight had long since faded, leaving behind a body that ached with exhaustion and pain. His legs trembled with each motion, and his breath came in short, labored gasps.
Halfway up, his foot caught the edge of a step, and he stumbled, barely catching himself against the railing. The sharp jolt of pain from his bruised ribs forced a hiss through his teeth. Frustration flared hot and fierce, but it was quickly tempered by a quiet resolve.
"Damn this frail body," he muttered, his voice low and tinged with self-reproach.
And yet, as he stood there gripping the banister, a flicker of pride burned within him. This body, battered and flawed as it was, had endured. It had carried him through a brutal fight against an opponent no one believed he could beat.
A faint smile tugged at his lips as he straightened, pushing himself forward.
"One step at a time," he whispered, the words a mantra against the weariness clawing at him.
As he reached his floor, the sound of hurried footsteps and a familiar voice caught his attention.
"Eren!"