Reputation

Chapter 2: Reputation

The fight was over, but the noise in the underground club hadn't died down. Sammy "The Ghost" Davis stood in the center of the ring, breathing hard, his fists still clenched inside his worn-out gloves. Bobby "The Bulldozer" Graves lay slumped against the ropes, his eyes unfocused, his breath ragged. The ref had called it—Sammy won.

But the reaction from the crowd wasn't what he expected.

There were no cheers for the underdog victory, no chants of his name. Just murmurs, whispers of disbelief. A few people shook their heads, some even looked annoyed, like they had just lost money.

Sammy had been the easy bet—the guy meant to lose.

He pulled his gloves off, rolling his stiff fingers. His knuckles ached from the last few punches, but he could still feel the adrenaline rushing through him. He turned toward the exit, stepping off the ring, when a voice stopped him.

"Not bad, Ghost. Didn't think you had it in you."

Sammy glanced over his shoulder. A stocky man in a cheap leather jacket stood near the betting table, a cigar resting between his fingers. He had the look of a small-time fight organizer—someone who set up matches, took bets, and made money off guys like Sammy.

"Yeah?" Sammy muttered, wiping sweat from his face with the back of his hand.

The man smirked. "Bobby should've crushed you. People ain't happy when their money don't come back."

Sammy let out a short laugh. "Not my problem."

The man chuckled, taking a drag from his cigar. "No, but it will be." He looked around the club, where a few men were still side-eyeing Sammy like he had stolen something. "You messed up the bets. That means some people ain't too happy with you."

Sammy shrugged. "Guess they should've bet smarter."

The man grinned. "I like you, kid. Name's Rick. I set up fights around here. Got a few more coming up. You interested?"

Sammy studied him for a moment. He wasn't an idiot—guys like Rick weren't offering out of kindness. There was always a catch.

"What's in it for you?" Sammy asked.

Rick flicked the ashes off his cigar. "I like making money. You keep winning, you build a rep. More people wanna see if the Ghost is the real deal. That means bigger bets, bigger fights. Simple as that."

Sammy thought about it. He needed the money. He needed the fights. But more than that, he needed to prove to himself that this win wasn't a fluke.

"Where and when?" he asked.

Rick grinned. "Two nights from now. Real gym, real fighters. You ready for that?"

Sammy didn't hesitate. "Yeah."

The Gym

The gym smelled like sweat, rust, and old leather. The walls were covered in peeling posters of past fights, and the sound of heavy bags being pummeled echoed through the space. It wasn't a clean, polished training facility—it was a place for fighters who had something to prove.

Sammy wrapped his hands, feeling the sting in his knuckles from the last fight. He had spent the day replaying his match with Bobby in his head, going over every mistake, every moment he hesitated. He had won, but barely. If Bobby had been smarter, if he had pressed harder, Sammy might not have made it out.

He needed to be better.

"You the Ghost?"

Sammy turned to see a man leaning against the cage in the back of the gym. He was older, maybe mid-thirties, built like a seasoned fighter. He had the sharp, watchful eyes of someone who had seen too many fights, won some, lost more.

"Depends who's asking," Sammy said.

The man smirked. "Name's Carlos. I was at your fight. You move well, but you got holes in your game."

Sammy raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Like what?"

Carlos pushed off the cage, stepping closer. "You rely too much on your boxing. You're quick, but against someone who knows how to take you down, you're done."

Sammy exhaled through his nose. He knew Carlos was right. Bobby had been a brawler—if he had fought a wrestler instead, it would've been a different story.

Carlos crossed his arms. "You wanna survive in this world? You need to learn how to fight outside the ring."

Sammy nodded. "You offering to teach me?"

Carlos shrugged. "I ain't got time for students, but I can show you a thing or two. That is, if you don't mind getting thrown around a little."

Sammy grinned. "I can take a hit."

Carlos chuckled. "Good. 'Cause in this business, you're gonna take a lot more before you make it anywhere."

The Next Fight

Two nights later, Sammy stood in the center of a different ring. This wasn't some backroom bar fight. This was a real underground gym, with fighters who actually trained, guys who had spent years perfecting their craft. The crowd wasn't made up of drunk gamblers—they were fighters, trainers, people who knew the game.

His opponent was already inside the ring—a kickboxer named Trey Lewis. Taller, leaner, and with a reach advantage. He bounced on his feet, his eyes locked on Sammy like a predator sizing up prey.

Sammy took a breath. He had spent the last two days training with Carlos, learning how to defend against clinches, how to stay on his feet when someone tried to take him down. It wasn't much, but it was something.

The bell rang.

Trey moved fast, throwing a sharp leg kick. Sammy barely dodged it, feeling the wind cut across his shin. If that had landed, it would've slowed him down instantly. Trey smirked, already throwing another kick, this time aimed at Sammy's ribs.

Sammy stepped inside, cutting off the space. He threw a quick jab, but Trey blocked it and clinched, pulling Sammy's head down into a knee strike. Pain exploded through Sammy's ribs, and he stumbled back, gasping for air.

Trey didn't let up. He fired another kick, but Sammy ducked under it, stepping in close. He had to take control. He threw a left hook to the body, then a right cross to Trey's jaw. The impact was solid, but Trey didn't go down.

The fight turned into a brutal back-and-forth. Sammy landed clean punches, but Trey's kicks kept him at bay. Every time Sammy got close, Trey used clinches to throw knees, making him pay for every exchange.

Sammy's lungs burned. His vision blurred with sweat. He needed to end this.

He waited. Let Trey throw another kick. This time, Sammy stepped in before it fully extended. He caught Trey's leg and drove a brutal right hand straight into his face.

Trey staggered. Sammy pressed forward, unloading a flurry of punches. Left hook. Right cross. Uppercut.

Trey hit the mat.

The ref stepped in, calling the fight. Sammy stood over his opponent, breathing hard. The gym was silent for a moment. Then, murmurs.

This time, the whispers weren't doubt. They were recognition.

Sammy wasn't just some nobody anymore.

He was someone to watch.

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