The underground ring pulsed with raw violence.

The air was thick—sweat, blood, whiskey—all blending into something rancid. Below, bodies collided, flesh meeting bone with sickening force.

Marco "Maverick" Reyes sat back in his chair on the upper floor, whiskey glass balanced between his fingers. His expression was unreadable, eyes locked onto the slaughter below.

Rico and Tony flanked him, leaning forward, the tension in their shoulders betraying them.

A kid—skinny, battered, barely standing—teetered in the corner of the ring. His face was a swollen, bleeding wreck. His opponent, a mountain of a man, loomed over him, fists already dripping red.

The next punch hit like a gunshot.

The kid's skull snapped sideways. Blood splattered across the ropes.

Tony exhaled sharply. "Jesus Christ."

"He's gonna die in there," Rico muttered, gripping the table.

Marco didn't blink. "The ones who survive are the ones who take the most hits."

Rico shot him a sharp look. "Survive? The kid's skull is caving in."

Marco swirled his drink, the ice clinking softly. "Then he better keep swinging."

Below, the brute reeled back for another shot. The kid barely held himself up, legs trembling, blood pooling at his feet.

Tony winced. "That's it. He's done."

Marco's fingers tapped lazily against the glass as he observed.

Just then the kid moved.

A sudden, desperate lunge. His elbow drove into the brute's ribs—sharp, vicious.

The crack echoed through the space.

Marco smirked. "There we go."

The brute staggered, eyes wide with rage. He came in swinging, all brute force, all fury.

The kid slipped under the blow—just barely. Then, with everything left in him, he drove his fist straight into the man's throat.

A wet, choking sound. The giant stumbled back, clutching at nothing.

Rico's breath hitched. "No way—"

The kid attacked.

No technique. No finesse. Just raw, unfiltered violence.

His fists rained down, a storm of desperation.

Bone split. Teeth cracked. Blood painted the ring, dripping from the ropes, pooling beneath them.

The brute's body sagged, his movements sluggish, his face barely recognizable.

One last uppercut.

The giant's head snapped back at an unnatural angle.

Then, silence.

His body dropped like dead weight.

For a second, the arena held its breath.

Then—chaos.

The crowd exploded, screaming, pounding against the cage.

Fists in the air, bets exchanged, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air.

Tony looked like he'd seen a ghost. "Holy fuck. He killed him."

Marco took a slow sip of his drink, eyes glinting in the dim light. "Yeah."

Below, the body was already being dragged out, the blood-smeared floor marking its path.

Rico ran a hand through his hair. "This is sick, man. You're making money off this shit."

Marco exhaled smoke, a lazy smile curling his lips. "No. I'm making money off survival."

Tony turned to him, his expression twisted in disgust. "You're a fucking psychopath."

Marco met his gaze, unblinking.

"Psychopaths don't make money, Tony." He set the empty glass down, the sound sharp against the table.

"Smart men do."

Just then, the door creaked open.

Marco barely shifted in his chair. A waiter stepped in, white shirt crisp, hands steady—too steady. He moved without hesitation, placing a bottle of wine on the table, uncorking it with practiced ease.

Marco exhaled smoke, watching through the haze.

"I didn't order wine."

"Doesn't matter. Top us off," he muttered, swirling his glass, the blood-red liquid catching the dim light.

The waiter poured, silent. His hands—now Marco saw it—weren't steady. They trembled, just slightly.

Then—

A flicker of steel.

The glint of a gun.

Marco's breath hitched.

Bang!

The shot punched through his chest.

Fire. Searing, ripping fire.

His body jerked, a wet cough forcing its way past his lips as blood flooded his throat.

His hands clutched at the wound, fingers slick with warmth.

The pain stole his breath, his thoughts—everything turning into static.

The table was painted red. His shirt soaked through. The wine glass tipped over, its contents blending into the mess.

He lifted his gaze. The waiter—no, the old man—stared down at him. Eyes empty. Dead inside.

A memory slammed into him.

A broken kid, face caved in. His father, screaming. His son's corpse dragged from the ring like discarded trash. Then, Marco watched from the shadows, disappointment etched on his face.

Now, that same father stood over him.

Rico lunged.

Bang!

His body convulsed midair. The bullet punched through his skull, brain matter splattering across the wall. His corpse crumpled, twitching once before going still.

Tony's scream barely left his throat before—

Bang!

His head snapped back. Blood spattered across Marco's face, warm and thick. Tony's lifeless body slumped onto the table, eyes staring at nothing.

Marco's hand fumbled for his gun.

Too slow.

Bang!

His shoulder exploded, the pain like molten iron.

Bang!

Another. His ribs shattered. Blood bubbled from his lips as his body sagged, lungs fighting for air.

The old man stood over him, still silent. The gun, still warm.

Marco's vision blurred. His own blood pooled around him, seeping into his clothes, his skin, the cracks of the table.

"No."

His body twitched.

"It can't end like this."

"I built an empire of violence… of survival." His lips barely moved, the words gurgled, lost in the blood.

His fingers clenched weakly against the table, slipping in the blood. His breath came in shallow gasps.

'It's unfair.'

The old man turned away, footsteps slow, deliberate.

Marco tried to move but his body refused.

He wanted to shout, but no sound came. Only the wet, slow gurgle of his own blood drowning him.

Then—nothing.

At the door, the old man muttered, "Your empire was built on brutality."

"And without you, it will fall."

...

BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!

The shrill blare of an alarm shattered the silence.

Marco gasped awake, chest rising and falling in sharp, frantic breaths.

His hand shot to his heart, then his shoulder. His ribs.

Nothing. No pain. No blood.

A shaky breath escaped him.

"A nightmare…?" The thought barely formed before a strange unease crept in.

"Why are my hands—Tiny?"

"Smooth?"

"Too soft!"

His stomach lurched.

"What the fuck!" The words tore from his throat as he shot up from the bed, his pulse hammering.

His eyes darted around.

The bed—too small.

The room—cramped, unfamiliar. The walls—old, peeling.

'This house.'

His breath hitched.

His legs moved before his mind caught up, dragging him toward the bathroom. He shoved the door open.

And froze.

The mirror—

A stranger stared back.

Wide, youthful eyes. White skin.

A face untouched by time, unmarred by scars.

His own reflection.

Young.

Too young.

Marco's breath quickened, his fingers clawing at his face, as if he could peel away the illusion.

"No. No, no, no—"

His hands trembled.