Bet, Brawl, and Bad Decisions

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. Still, 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."

Jordan exhaled slowly. "Oh, great idea." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Malik was clearly not in the mood for jokes. He then quickly changed his expression into a smile. His smile had all the warmth of a loan shark about to collect a debt—with interest.

"Two options," he said, cracking his knuckles like punctuation. "One, you pay up. Right here, right now."

Elion stared at him, glanced at Jordan, and then went back to Malik. Was this guy serious?

"Oh, sure," Jordan said dryly. "Let me just check my pocket real quick." He patted his empty pockets for dramatic effect. "Wait, hold on—I think I left my five grand in my other pants."

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

Malik's expression did not change. He sighed, shaking his head like he was dealing with an idiot. "Option two, then. We take it out of your hide."

Jordan sighed like this whole situation was just mildly inconvenient like he had gotten stuck in a long checkout line instead of about to be jumped in an alley.

"So, that's the plan?" he asked, tilting his head. "Jump us because you lost a bet? Real original."

Marcus shrugged. "Money's money."

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

Elion resisted the urge to slam his head into a wall. Now, they were definitely fighting.

Marcus's jaw twitched. His arms were still crossed, but the way his stance shifted told Elion everything he needed to know. They weren't walking away from this.

"I'm open to a better idea," Marcus said, his voice calm but laced with irritation.

Jordan rolled his shoulders. "Nah. I'm good." He grinned, lifting his hands. "Come on, then."

Elion exhaled through his nose. Yep. That sounded about right. He was officially cursing every life decision that had led him here.

Jordan, on the other hand, was grinning. Actually grinning.

Elion shot him a look that translated roughly to: Are you out of your mind?

Jordan's smirk widened. Apparently, yes.

Malik rolled his shoulders, clearly done with the back-and-forth. "Less talk. Let's get this over with."

Elion clenched his jaw. This was bad. Actually, no—this was really bad. His brain went into survival mode, running through possible ways out of this.

Options? None.

Unless he could suddenly develop the ability to teleport, this was happening. And just like that, something shifted.

Elion felt it. So did everyone else.

Jordan wasn't bluffing. He wasn't posturing. He was… relaxed. Too relaxed.

Elion's stomach dropped. Oh no.

Malik? He wasn't feeling the vibe shift. He was done.

Losing the match was bad enough. Losing his money? Worse.

Getting completely clowned by Elion over and over in front of everyone? That was the final straw.

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

"Enough!" Malik snapped. Then, he swung his right fist.

Elion barely had time to process it. Malik's fist shot forward, aiming straight for Jordan's face. He was going berserk.

Jordan? He didn't move. Not at first. He just stood there, watching, like he was genuinely interested in what was about to happen.

Then, right before impact—he wasn't there anymore.

Malik's fist sliced through the air.

Elion blinked.

Malik stumbled forward, eyes wide. "What?!"

Jordan was already behind him. And that's when Elion knew.

This fight? It wasn't going to go the way Marcus and Malik thought it would.

Everyone barely even saw it happen.

One second, Jordan was right there.

And, exactly at the next second, poof—he was gone.

Malik's full power punch swung through empty air. Despite all his bravado, his momentum yanked him forward after missing. Imagine it like a cartoon character who just realized he'd run off a cliff.

Jordan quickly stepped in by planting his foot behind Malik's.

Without giving a chance for Malik to process the failure and embarrassment, Jordan drove an elbow straight into his ribs.

Hard.

Malik let out a strangled gasp, staggering backward, clutching his side like Jordan had just replaced one of his organs with a live grenade.

"What was that?!" he wheezed, eyes wide with disbelief.

Jordan blinked at him, tilting his head. "Uh… dude? We're fighting. What, did you think I was just gonna let you hit me?"

His voice was so casual, so genuinely confused, that it almost sounded like he felt bad for Malik's incompetence.

Then, because Jordan had no self-preservation instinct whatsoever, he smirked and added, "Also? You might wanna work on that right hook. Almost felt it."

Elion groaned and muttered. "Fantastic. Now we're all gonna die."

He was lucky because for now, only Jordan and Malik were engaged in a fight. The rest were still looking. But that was about to end because of Jordan's words.

And yeah—if pissing them off was Jordan's goal, mission accomplished.

The next second, apparently, the rest of Marcus's crew surged forward all at once—three guys, no, four at the same time.

No hesitation, no warning. Just full-on "let's make this a crime scene" energy.

Elion should've jumped in. He needed to jump in. But for a second, his brain just… stalled.

Because Jordan... he was ridiculous.

The first guy threw a punch—Jordan dipped under it so smoothly he might as well have been phased out of reality for a second.

The second guy lunged from behind—Jordan turned just enough to sidestep him, grabbed his arm mid-charge, and used his momentum to send him stumbling into the brick wall.

Another came in swinging—Jordan shifted his weight, caught the dude's wrist like they were dance partners, and flipped him over with a move that definitely did not belong in a casual street fight.

Elion just stared. What. The. Actual. Hell.

Sure, Jordan had always been an athlete—quick, coordinated, precise. But this?

This was different.

Jordan wasn't just dodging—he was predicting. Every movement, every shift in weight, every badly telegraphed punch. He saw it coming before they even threw it as if he had rehearsed this fight a hundred times in his head before it even started.

Elion had always known Jordan was strong, but this was something else entirely. This wasn't just athleticism. This was training or… experience.

And yet, even as he moved like a trained fighter, Jordan wasn't untouchable.

A solid hit landed against his shoulder, making him wince. Another knee connected with his ribs, forcing the air out of his lungs. But instead of backing off, instead of showing even a fraction of discomfort—

He grinned.

Elion saw it. That tiny, infuriating upturn of Jordan's lips. His body was loose and relaxed, and this was fun for him.

Jordan wasn't just handling the fight. He was enjoying it. Then things took a turn. A bad one.

Elion barely caught it—a flicker of movement at the edge of the chaos. A guy he hadn't even noticed before bent down, fingers curling around something on the ground.

A metal rod.

Elion's stomach dropped. 'Oh, hell no.'

The guy's knuckles whitened around the grip, his eyes locking onto Jordan, who was still too busy fending off Marcus and Malik to see what was coming.

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

Before the guy could do so much as raise the weapon, Elion dropped low and swung his leg out.

CRACK.

His foot slammed into the guy's ankles, sweeping them out from under him with perfect timing.

The guy didn't just fall—he crashed. His arms flailed, his head bounced off the pavement, and the metal rod? It soared straight up, spinning mid-air.

And then—because apparently, Elion's survival instincts were broken beyond repair—he did the dumbest possible thing. Instead of letting the rod hit the ground like a normal, sane person, he reared back and kicked it.

Full force.

The metal whistled through the air, a perfect, physics-defying projectile—

BANG.

It smashed into the back of Marcus's head so hard that he froze mid-motion, blinked once like his brain had just blue-screened. And then? He dropped face-first before he was completely out.

The alley went still. Everyone—Elion included—just stared at Marcus's unconscious body.

Jordan, mid-fight, actually paused long enough to look at Elion like he had just witnessed a supernatural event.

Elion blinked, trying to process what he had just done.

For a second, nobody moved. Everyone looked at Elion as if he had played dirty in this fight.

"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?

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.

But Malik was not going to give time to anyone now. He was already swinging it toward Elion. His eyes? He seemed as if he had decided to smash Elion's head to pieces.

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.

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

Elion raised his head 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. Of course, it was a 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. It was so hard, but Malik didn't exactly go flying.

Still, 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.

A strange feeling settled in Elion's chest as he stared at the emblem. Something about it felt... wrong. Familiar, almost. But that was impossible.

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 jerked his head toward one of his teammates—a tall guy with sharp eyes standing a few feet back, arms crossed like he had already calculated five different ways this fight could've gone. "He noticed some of them acting weird after the match. Real twitchy. Like they were pissed, but not just normal 'we lost' pissed."

He let out a dry chuckle before adding, "By the time we figured they might try something, you two had already disappeared. So we had to split up. One of my guys shadowed them while the rest of us tried to track you down."

Jordan, still catching his breath, let out a short laugh. "So basically, you got lost."

Raymond's face twisted in the immediate offense. "No, it just took longer than expected to regroup and—"

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

Raymond scowled, running a hand down his face. "Look, the point is, we got here before things went too messy."

Elion surveyed the alley—the groaning bodies, the knocked-out figures, the distinct metal rod still lying next to Marcus's unconscious form. He raised an eyebrow.

"'Before things went too messy'?" He gestured vaguely at the chaos. "You want to define 'too messy for me'?"

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.

At least the fight was over. But the night?

Elion had a sinking feeling it was just getting started.

Author's Note:

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