The Underdog

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Chapter 1: The Underdog

The air in the underground fight club was thick with smoke, sweat, and anticipation. Dim fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the grimy concrete floor. The murmur of a half-drunk crowd filled the room, hushed with excitement, waiting for the next fight to begin. A steady bass beat pulsed from the speakers, barely audible over the sound of fists hitting flesh.

Sammy "The Ghost" Davis adjusted his gloves, flexing his fingers inside the worn leather. The padding was thin, the straps barely holding on. His old gym shorts hung low on his waist, a torn shirt clung to his chest. He wasn't here for glory. He wasn't here for fame. He was here because he needed the money.

Across the ring, his opponent, a hulking man named Bobby "The Bulldozer" Graves, stood, stretching his broad shoulders and cracking his knuckles. Bobby was everything Sammy wasn't: big, strong, intimidating. He was the kind of guy who could throw a punch that could break bones with a single blow, someone who had fought in countless street brawls and made a name for himself in the underground scene. And the crowd loved him for it.

Sammy, on the other hand, was a boxer—pure and simple. No flashy moves, no spinning kicks. Just punches, footwork, and speed. The only problem? He was outclassed here. Everyone in this room knew that. Bobby wasn't just a street fighter—he was a heavy hitter. The crowd was already chanting his name, taunting Sammy with their jeers.

"Come on, Ghost! You're gonna get wrecked!"

The bell rang, sharp and clear. Sammy took a breath, his heart pounding in his chest, and stepped forward. He wasn't going to go down easy. He never did. His father's voice echoed in his mind. Keep moving, kid. Don't let 'em corner you. You move, you win.

Sammy bobbed and weaved, closing the distance, eyes locked on Bobby's every move. Bobby didn't move like a boxer—he moved like a wrecking ball. His huge frame lumbered forward, swinging wide hooks that could crush skulls. Sammy's job wasn't to meet those punches head-on. It was to avoid them and hit back.

The first punch came faster than Sammy expected—a wide right hook. Sammy ducked, slipping under it with ease, but the power behind it was undeniable. He could feel the wind from the punch, a reminder of how much stronger Bobby was. Sammy retaliated with a quick jab to the body, but Bobby grinned and absorbed it. His guard was loose, but his sheer size made it harder to make an impact.

Sammy danced around the ring, staying light on his feet. He kept his distance, darting in and out with precise jabs. He could already feel his lungs burning from the pace, but that was the price of being the lighter, faster fighter. Bobby, on the other hand, was relentless, his heavy feet thudding on the canvas with every step, forcing Sammy back.

"C'mon, Ghost, you're too slow!" Bobby taunted, throwing a monstrous haymaker that missed by a hair.

Sammy's heart raced. This is what you came here for, he reminded himself. Don't let him corner you.

The crowd was chanting now, sensing the battle shift as Bobby kept pressing. Sammy had no choice but to stand his ground. He wasn't going to win with just footwork. He needed to hit Bobby back, make him respect his punches.

Another right hook came flying towards him. Sammy sidestepped it, but this time, Bobby anticipated his movement. The heavy fighter's fist clipped Sammy's chin, sending a shockwave through his skull. Sammy's vision blurred for a moment, and he stumbled back, nearly losing his footing.

The crowd roared. Bobby smirked, taking a step forward to finish him off.

Keep moving. Sammy's feet kicked into gear. He could hear his father's voice again. You're a ghost, kid. You can't let them touch you.

Sammy swayed and pivoted, getting low. He ducked under Bobby's wild punches, making Bobby miss again and again. With a snap, Sammy jabbed straight into Bobby's solar plexus, forcing him to take a step back. For a second, Bobby's eyes widened in surprise—no one expected a boxer to move like that.

The opening was brief, but it was enough.

Sammy moved like lightning. He stepped in close and threw a devastating left hook to Bobby's jaw, followed by a right cross to the temple. Bobby stumbled back, his hands dropping for just a split second. That was all Sammy needed.

The crowd fell silent, as if they couldn't believe what had just happened. Bobby's legs wobbled, and for the first time, he looked vulnerable.

Sammy didn't hesitate. He pressed forward, his gloves hammering into Bobby's face, jab, jab, jab—fast, precise. Bobby tried to clinch, but Sammy was already on the move again, slipping and weaving, keeping his punches tight and controlled.

It was over. Bobby collapsed against the ropes, his legs giving out. The referee stepped in, holding up Sammy's hand as the crowd erupted into shock and disbelief. Sammy had done it. Against all odds, he'd won.

His heart was racing, his body screaming in exhaustion, but he couldn't wipe the grin off his face. He wasn't just a boxer. He was a fighter.

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