The ceiling was cracked.
Killa traced the jagged lines with his eyes, following the fractures as they stretched like spiderwebs across the peeling paint.
The room was quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood and the distant sound of wind pushing against the orphanage walls.
Sleep wouldn't come.
It never did on nights like this—when his skin still buzzed with adrenaline, when his hands still carried the phantom weight of a fight.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the bruises on his knuckles. The sting had dulled, but he could still hear the sound of his fist connecting with Javi's nose.
The way the blood had dripped onto his collar. The way the laughter had stopped.
Killa sighed.
He turned onto his side. Then onto his back again. His mind was restless, his body tense.
He wasn't going to sleep.
He knew it the moment he sat up, his feet hitting the cold wooden floor.
His movements were quiet, practiced. He grabbed his hoodie, pulling it over his head, then laced up his worn sneakers. The hallway outside his door was dark. Empty.
Killa moved.
Down the hall. Down the stairs. Past the common room, where the glow of an old lamp flickered against the walls.
The orphanage doors were locked at night. It didn't matter.
He knew the side window never latched properly.
A push. A quiet scrape of metal.
And he was out.
Unbeknownst to him, one of the rooms flickered with light as a figure stood watching Killa leave.
Sighing for the umpteenth time for the day, she looked back before getting out of the room.
...
The night air was cold, sharp against his skin as he stepped onto the street. Philadelphia stretched before him—a city of ghosts and echoes, of towering buildings and alleyways that never slept.
Killa shoved his hands into his pockets, moving through the streets like a shadow.
Past the corner store, where the fluorescent lights hummed against the glass.
Past the bars where drunken voices spilled onto the pavement. He kept walking.
South Philly.
This part of the city was different.
The buildings here leaned too close together, their bricks stained with decades of rain and smoke.
The sidewalks were cracked, littered with old wrappers and cigarette butts. The further he went, the darker it got.
Streetlights flickered, some broken, some barely clinging to life.
This was the slums.
And this was where the fights happened.
Not the clean, polished ones under bright lights.
The real fights.
Where men swung fists in back alleys and underground rings. Where blood mixed with sweat on concrete floors.
Where money changed hands before the first punch was even thrown.
Killa had been here before. Not often. But enough.
He knew the signs.
The sounds.
And tonight, he heard them.
A sharp grunt. The muffled thud of a body hitting the ground. The murmur of voices, low and expectant.
He followed it.
Down an alley. Around the corner.
Then, he saw it.
The gym.
It didn't look like much.
An old building, its bricks dark with age. The sign above the door was faded, the letters barely legible.
The front door was slightly open, yellow light spilling onto the cracked pavement.
Killa stepped closer.
Inside, the air was thick—warm, heavy with the scent of sweat and old leather. A single ring stood at the center of the gym, its ropes frayed, its canvas stained.
Around it, men gathered, their faces half-hidden in the dim light.
Two fighters moved inside the ring.
One dodged. The other swung.
A punch landed.
Killa's chest tightened.
It was different from a schoolyard fight. Different from the brawls he'd been in.
This was controlled. Sharp.
Real.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
He wanted to see more.
Wanted to step inside.
Wanted—
"You're a little far from home, kid."
The voice stopped him cold.
Killa turned.
An old man stood near the entrance, leaning against the wall. His face was lined with age, his eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. His arms were crossed, his posture relaxed but firm.
Killa opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
The old man studied him for a moment, then exhaled through his nose. "Go home."
Killa didn't move, unflinching as he stared at the old man.
The man's gaze didn't waver. "Now."
Something about the way he said it left no room for argument.
Killa clenched his jaw. He cast one last glance at the gym, at the fight still raging inside.
Then, without a word, he turned.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away, spitting onto the ground like he had something against it.
The old man watched him go.
His expression unreadable.
His gaze followed the boy's retreating form until he disappeared down the street.
Then, a voice spoke from the shadows.
"He's trouble."
The old man didn't turn. "I know."
A man stepped into the dim light, taller, built like someone who had seen his fair share of the struggles and fights in this world.
Guissepe.
He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, watching the empty street. "I've seen him fight. He's different, tough, more reckless too"
The old man finally looked at him. "How different?"
Guissepe exhaled. "He doesn't just win in his childish brawls. He breaks them. So they never come back again. For a 8, 9, maybe 10 year old to be like that, it's innate."
The old man frowned slightly.
"I'm serious," Guissepe continued. "Doesn't matter if they're bigger, older, stronger. I've seen him take down guys twice his size.
They walk away with split lips, broken noses. Sometimes worse. Makes sense Sister Maria is being threatened with his expulsion all the time in school"
The old man was silent.
Guissepe shook his head. "He fights like he's got nothing to lose."
The old man sighed.
His gaze drifted back to the empty street.
Killa was long gone.
But something about the way he had stood there—something about the way his body had tensed, the way his fists had clenched at his sides—
It reminded him of something.
Something old.
Something he hadn't seen in a long time.
Guissepe shifted beside him. "You know Sister Maria, don't you?"
The old man's lips pressed into a thin line. "I do."
"She's been looking after him for years," Guissepe muttered. "Always trying to keep him out of trouble."
A pause.
Then—
"I don't think she's gonna succeed."
The old man didn't answer.
He just stared at the empty space where Killa had stood.
His expression, still unreadable.
His thoughts, however, were anything but.
...….
Killa walked.
The city stretched before him, restless, alive.
The wind picked up, cold against his skin, but he barely felt it.
His heart still pounded.
His hands still itched.
He had seen something tonight.
Something that made his blood run hot.
Something that made him restless in a way he couldn't explain.
The fight.
The way they moved.
The way they fought.
Killa clenched his fists.
He wanted to go back.
But the old man had sent him away.
Killa exhaled sharply, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.
He would come back.
Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow.
But he would.
Because something had stirred inside him tonight.
And no matter how hard he tried—
He couldn't ignore it.
End of Chapter