Chapter Four

What kind of atmosphere do you expect when a bunch of guys are about to throw hands over a five-thousand-dollar bet?

Calm? Civilized? A polite discussion over tea?

Yeah, no.

It was chaotic.

And the worst part? Elion and Jordan weren't even part of the bet. Sure, they'd played for the red team, the ones who won, but they didn't see a single cent from it. Not that it mattered to the sore losers currently trying to corner them like unpaid debts at a loan shark's office.

Elion? He was extremely nervous.

Jordan? He looked like a kid excited to open a birthday gift.

Yeah. This guy was crazy. Or maybe just a little too eager for what was about to happen.

Marcus stepped forward, cracking his neck, which was always not a great sign. He glanced between Elion and Jordan and sighed like this whole thing was an inconvenience for him.

"I don't like this any more than you do," Marcus said. "But five grand is a lot of money."

Jordan scoffed, arms crossed. "Should've thought about that before you bet it."

Elion nodded. For once, Jordan was making sense. Not that it helped their situation.

Marcus's eye twitched, but to his credit, he kept his cool. "We don't care how. You two are paying it back."

Elion exhaled slowly. "Oh, great idea." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "How, exactly? Cash? Check? Want me to Venmo you my imaginary five grand?"

Malik was not in the mood for jokes. He smiled in a way that showed he really wanted to punch someone.

"Two options," Malik said. "One, you pay up. Right here, right now."

Elion fought the urge to laugh out loud. Oh sure, let me just dig into my overflowing vault of money, which definitely exists.

If he could drop five grand like that, he wouldn't be stressing over rent and working himself to death.

"Yeah, that's not happening," Elion said flatly. "Let's hear option two." His voice trembled slightly at the end, but hey, A for effort.

Jordan, meanwhile, was barely holding in his laughter, enjoying Elion's attempt at false bravado way too much.

Marcus smirked. "Option two, then. We take it out of your hide."

Elion was definitely cursing the universe now.

Jordan, however, grinned. "Cool. Why not give it a try?"

Elion felt the urge to grab his best friend and choke him to death. Jordan, do you have a death wish?!

Malik cracked his knuckles—louder this time, like he was warming up for his big moment. "Less talk, Marcus. Let's get this done quickly."

Elion clenched his jaw. This was bad.

Jordan sighed, rolling his shoulders like he was about to clock in for work. "So that's it? That's your big plan? Jump us in an alley over a bad bet?"

Marcus shrugged. "Money's money."

Jordan smirked. "Yeah? So's your dignity. Shame you bet that away, too."

Elion groaned. Yep. They were definitely fighting now.

Marcus crossed his arms. "I'm open to any better ideas you have."

"Nah. I'm good. Come on!" Jordan grinned. And for the first time since this all started, Elion felt something shift.

Jordan was relaxed, but not because he was underestimating them. It was something else.

Elion wasn't sure what—but whatever it was, it was coming soon. He barely had time to process Jordan's shift in attitude before Malik snapped. It was like something inside him had been boiling over all night, and now the lid had finally blown off.

Well, if you give it a thought, two things happened to Malik today.

One, he lost the bet. A big one.

Two, he got humiliated by Elion over and over during the match.

That second one? That stung like losing another five-thousand-dollar.

"What's wrong? Chickening out?" Jordan taunted.

"Enough!" With a furious growl, Malik charged. And just like that, all hell broke loose.

Jordan didn't move. Not at first.

He just stood there, watching with genuine curiosity as Malik's fist came flying toward his face like he was debating whether or not to bother dodging.

Then—right when it should have connected—he wasn't there anymore.

"What?!"

Elion barely even saw it happen. One second, Jordan was right there. The next, poof—gone. Malik's punch sliced through nothing, sending him lurching forward like an idiot swinging at a ghost.

Before he could feel embarrassed, Jordan turned, stepped on his heel, and elbowed Malik in the ribs.

Hard.

Malik gasped and stepped back. He held his side as he struggled to breathe.

"What the hell?!" he asked, looking very angry.

Jordan tilted his head, and he seemed very confused. "Uh, dude? We're fighting. What, did you think I was just gonna stand here and let you hit me?"

Then, because Jordan had zero survival instincts, he smirked and added, "Also? You should really work on that right hook. Almost felt it."

Elion groaned. Oh, great. Now he's actively trying to get us killed.

Well, if Jordan wanted the others to be pissed, it seemed to work. That was when the others joined in—three, four, five guys at once.

Elion tensed. He had fought but never against this many people at once.

He knew that he needed to jump in, needed to—but Jordan was already moving. And it was crazy. Elion wondered when Jordan learned or trained like this.

Jordan anticipated every strike before it even landed.

A punch from the left? Ducked.

A kick from behind? Blocked effortlessly.

Someone lunged at him? Jordan twisted their momentum against them, flipping them over.

It felt like watching a kung-fu expert in an action movie.

'What in the world is going on?' Elion had known Jordan was an athlete. But this? This was different.

Still, Jordan took a few hits here and there—a solid punch to the shoulder, a knee to the ribs—but he barely reacted.

No flinching. No hesitation.

If anything, he looked like he was enjoying it.

Then things took a turn. Someone—a guy Elion hadn't even noticed before—grabbed a metal rod from the ground of god knows who left it there.

Elion's heart clenched. Oh, this smells like a bad idea.

The guy's grip tightened around the rod. His eyes locked on Jordan, who was too busy dealing with Marcus and Malik to notice the incoming surprise.

Something snapped inside Elion. He didn't think. He moved.

Fueled by instinct—or maybe just pure, undiluted survival panic—he dropped low and swept his leg out.

His foot slammed into the guy's ankles with perfect timing.

WHAM.

The dude's feet vanished from under him, and he hit the ground so hard that even the alley winced.

The guy tumbled backward, arms flailing. The metal rod flew from his grasp—and Elion did the dumbest thing imaginable. Instead of letting it hit the ground like a normal person, he reared back and kicked it.

Full force.

The rod shot through the air like a missile—smashing directly into the back of Marcus's head. He crumpled instantly, collapsing onto the pavement. Out cold.

Silence.

For a second, nobody moved. Everyone looked at Elion.

"What? He wanted to hit with the rod first," Elion said while pointing toward the guy who was lying in pain on the ground.

Then Elion felt it. The pain. The stupid, blinding pain of kicking a freaking metal rod. He let out a sharp inhale, his foot screaming in agony. "Ow, ow, ow—what the hell was I thinking!?"

Seriously. Who kicks a metal rod?!

Jordan, in the middle of casually deflecting another punch, glanced over and whistled. "Damn, Elion. Didn't know you had that in you."

Elion wheezed. "Yeah, well—neither did I!" He had barely processed what just happened when he realized—he'd just made things worse.

Instead of backing off, the group was angrier than ever.

They didn't care that Elion's metal rod stunt was pure reflex. 

They didn't care that they were the ones who tried to use it first.

All they saw was Elion knocking out Marcus with a freaking flying piece of steel, and now they wanted payback.

Malik staggered back, eyes wide with fury. "How dare you?!"

Elion blinked. Okay, seriously, what is this guy's deal?

Always with "How dare you?!"

Did he think fights were supposed to be one-sided? Like, was everyone just supposed to stand there and let him win? Did he expect people to apologize after dodging?

Before Elion could process just how delusional that was, Malik's rage went up another level. He stormed forward and grabbed the metal rod that Elion had kicked away, his grip so tight his knuckles turned white.

Then he started swinging.

Wild, uncontrolled, absolutely unhinged swings—at Jordan, at Elion, at probably the concept of fairness itself. The rod sliced through the air with enough force that if it actually connected, someone was leaving this alley with fewer functional bones.

Jordan had been handling their attacks well, but this time, he actually flinched. And Elion got it. Taking hits from fists and kicks was one thing, but getting smashed with a metal rod? That was a different level of pain.

Elion tried to stand up, but the pain in his foot was sharp and strong. He needed time to ease the pain, but they were short on time.

Then, something blurred past Elion.

Someone intercepted Malik's attack before it could land. A massive arm shot forward, stopping the metal rod in its tracks. Elion's eyes widened. 

That arm? It wasn't Jordan's.

And then he heard more footsteps.

"Well, well," came a familiar, amused voice. "Looks like some people really can't handle losing a bet."

Elion turned just in time to see Raymond standing between him and Malik.

And then, more footsteps.

At the entrance of the alley, the rest of the red team made their appearance. Relief flooded through him. The reinforcement had arrived—the one they never called.

Malik, too blinded by rage to care, ripped his arm free and swung at Raymond without hesitation. Yeah. Bad move.

"Come. I'll let you taste my fist." Raymond didn't even blink.

With a casual shift of his stance, he dodged the strike and delivered a devastating punch straight to Malik's face.

A punch from someone like Raymond?

That wasn't just painful—it was a ticket straight to the hospital.

Nope. Malik didn't exactly go flying, but he collapsed immediately, completely knocked out from that single hit.

The rest of the red team didn't wait for an invitation. The moment Malik dropped, they rushed in, taking on the remaining white team members with zero hesitation.

The alley erupted into chaos, fists flying, bodies colliding, and Elion—quickly clutching his grocery bag like an idiot—just let out a long sigh.

"Yep," he muttered to himself. "This night just keeps getting better."

After a few more minutes, everything was settled.

The white team members were scattered across the alley floor, some knocked out cold, others groaning in pain, and a few—because they were cowards—just pretending to be unconscious to avoid getting hit anymore. 

Marcus and Malik? Completely out. Unmoving.

Well, at least they wouldn't have to worry about their betting debts for a while—because they'd probably be waking up with a concussion instead.

The red team? They had taken a few hits here and there, but they didn't care. If anything, they enjoyed it.

Winning $5000 from the bet had already been a sweet victory, but getting to pummel their long-time rivals after the game?

That was just the cherry on top.

Raymond stood in the middle of the alley and looked at the wreckage. He let out a satisfied breath. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out two cards.

Without a word, he dropped them into Marcus and Malik's hands.

Elion, still nursing his aching foot, narrowed his eyes. "What's that?"

Raymond straightened up, dusting off his knuckles as he walked over to Elion and Jordan. "Nothing much. Just a little reminder for these idiots."

Elion was too tired to ask, but the strange symbol on the card nagged at him. It wasn't a name, not a business card—just a black emblem—a circle with a slash through it.

Jordan, ever the laid-back observer, just grinned. "You guys always this dramatic?"

Raymond smirked. "Only when people deserve it."

Then his expression shifted, turning more serious. He let out a low sigh and looked between Elion and Jordan. "Look, sorry this happened to you guys. We didn't think these fools would take their loss this personally. But one of my guys had a hunch you two might get targeted."

Elion was surprised. "A hunch?" He wasn't sure what was crazier—the fact that someone had actually predicted this would happen or the fact that these guys thought nothing would go wrong after betting that much money.

Raymond nodded toward a member of the red team. He was a tall guy with sharp eyes standing off to the side. "He noticed some of them were acting off after the match."

He grinned before adding, "By the time we figured they might come after you, you were already gone. So we had to split up. One of my guys tailed them while the rest of us tried to find you."

Jordan chuckled. "So basically, you got lost."

Raymond scowled. "No, it just took longer than expected to get everyone together."

Elion, despite himself, smirked. "You got lost."

Raymond rolled his eyes and shook his head. He quietly muttered something. "Whatever. Point is, we got here before things got too messy."

Elion glanced at the pile of bodies on the ground. "Define 'too messy'."

Raymond just grinned. "Look at them. Aren't they still alive?"

After looking at those people, Elion felt mixed emotions about the situation. A soccer match turned into a fight? Never had he imagined such a thing to happen and, worse—being a part of it.

Luckily, the night was finally over. Or so he thought.