Spectacle of pain

Osamu's breaths came in ragged bursts as he squared off against the man now circling him like a predator savoring its prey. Unlike the others—brutes who roared or cursed—this opponent moved with eerie silence, his polished dress shoes clicking faintly against the tile. His tailored suit clung to a frame dense with coiled muscle, and his eyes gleamed with a cold, intellectual cruelty. Osamu's knuckles throbbed from earlier blows, but he forced his fists to stay raised, every instinct screaming that this man was a different breed of danger.

"So, you're the one who took him down?" the man said, his voice smooth as oil. He tilted his head, studying Osamu like a specimen under glass. "Impressive. Let's fight."

Osamu wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, his smirk sharpening. "Do I have a choice?"

The man's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "You don't."

Osamu struck first—a piston-driven jab aimed at the man's jaw. His fist connected with a wet *crack*, the impact reverberating up his arm like a hammer striking an anvil. The man's head snapped sideways, his cheekbone blooming red, but he didn't stagger. Instead, he turned back with glacial slowness, neck muscles flexing like steel cables. Osamu's gut clenched. *That punch would've dropped anyone else.*

Before the thought fully formed, Osamu pivoted, channeling his momentum into a right hook aimed at the floating ribs. The blow landed with a hollow *thud*, the force enough to splinter wood—but the man didn't flinch. Instead, he exhaled a soft, derisive laugh, the sound colder than the draft seeping through the cracked hallway windows.

"I'm not impressed," he murmured, and then *moved*.

Osamu barely registered the left hook until it crashed into his side. The crunch of fracturing bone echoed in his ears, a white-hot agony searing through his ribs. He choked back a scream, teeth grinding so hard his jaw creaked. *Breathe. Adapt.* Gritting through the pain, he retaliated with a vicious uppercut to the solar plexus. This time, the man's breath hitched—a barely perceptible flinch.

Osamu's grin was all teeth. "That worked, didn't it?"

The man's eyes narrowed, and then the storm broke. A straight punch exploded toward Osamu's face. He ducked, but not fast enough—the blow grazed his temple, stars erupting in his vision. A follow-up hook slammed into his damaged ribs, and Osamu's knees nearly buckled. He staggered, guard slipping as he instinctively cradled his side. The man seized the opening, hammering a brutal cross into Osamu's forearm.

The *snap* of bone was unmistakable.

Osamu hissed, retreating as fire lanced up his right arm. His forearm ballooned instantly, purpling beneath the skin. Blood dripped from his nose, pooling on his lips, metallic and thick. He swiped at it with his good hand—a fatal split-second distraction. The man's fist rocketed toward his throat. Osamu twisted, but the punch clipped his collarbone, sending him crashing into the wall. Plaster cracked under his weight.

"Shit," he spat, staring at his mangled arm. The fingers trembled, useless.

His opponent loomed closer, rolling his shoulders like a sculptor admiring his work. "You're strong," he conceded, "but I'm beyond strength."

Osamu laughed, the sound raw and jagged. "Is that so?"

Pain blurred his vision, but his mind sharpened. Memories flashed: Goto's gravelly voice drilling into him during predawn training sessions. *"Your fists aren't your only weapons, kid. Legs are longer. Hit harder."* Osamu had scoffed then, wedded to his boxing roots. Now, it was his only play.

He exhaled, steadying himself, and let his hands drop. The man paused, intrigued.

"Keeping your guard down?" He sneered. "That's a mistake."

He lunged, a blur of lethal precision—but Osamu was already pivoting. His left leg snapped out in a low kick, shin cracking against the man's knee. A grunt escaped the man's lips as he faltered. Osamu didn't relent. He spun, channeling every ounce of pain and fury into a spinning side kick. His heel connected with the man's sternum, launching him backward into a cluster of spectators. Bodies scattered like pins in a strike.

Panting, Osamu finally registered the crowd. Dozens packed the hallway—tattooed gangsters, leather-clad enforcers, even kitchen staff in grease-stained aprons. They formed a ragged ring, phones raised, voices clamoring with bloodlust. A wiry teenager whistled appreciatively; a scarred brute tossed a crumpled bill to a companion, muttering odds. The air reeked of sweat, copper, and the sour tang of adrenaline.

Then the sea of bodies parted. A figure strode forward, his presence slicing through the chaos. Late thirties, immaculate in a charcoal overcoat, his face all angles and ice. The crowd stilled, whispers dying as he passed. Someone reached to shove him—then froze, paling. "S-Sorry, sir. I didn't—"

The man ignored them, his gaze locked on the fight. He pulled a phone from his coat, dialing with a gloved hand. Two rings, then a voice answered, lazy and deep.

"Hey, Seongji. Where are you?"

On the outskirts of the city, beneath the neon glare of a 24-hour gas station, a blond man leaned against a cherry-red Lamborghini. Seongji—gold chain glinting at his throat—tapped the fuel pump rhythmically, watching numbers climb. He chuckled, breath misting in the cold. "Hold on, I'll be there soon."

The line went dead.

Back in the hallway, the suited man tucked his phone away, never breaking focus. Around him, the crowd edged backward, tension thickening. A henchman leaned toward him, hesitant. "Was that the boss…?"

"Yeah." The man's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Don't let anyone kill them yet."

On the battlefield, Osamu feinted high, then swept his opponent's legs. The man crashed down, but surged up instantly, lip split and grinning.

The suited man crossed his arms, voice a blade. "I want to see how long they can last."