A New Threat

Chapter 5: A New Threat

The locker room was quiet except for the steady dripping of water from a rusted pipe in the corner. Sammy sat on the bench, wrapping a cold towel around his bruised knuckles. The fight with Malik was still fresh in his mind—the sting of elbows, the crushing weight of those clinches. He had won, but he had felt how close he was to losing.

Carlos leaned against the lockers, watching him. "You feeling it now?"

Sammy exhaled. "Yeah."

Carlos nodded. "That's good. Means you're learning."

Before Sammy could reply, the door creaked open. Rick stepped in, a smirk on his face. "Kid, you got a problem."

Sammy looked up. "What now?"

Rick tossed a cigarette between his fingers. "Word's spreading about you. People are talking. And when people talk, the wrong ones start listening."

Carlos straightened. "Who?"

Rick sighed, shaking his head. "Vinnie."

The name sat heavy in the air.

Sammy frowned. "Didn't you say he runs fights?"

"Yeah," Rick said. "But not the kind you're used to."

Carlos stepped in. "Vinnie doesn't just put fights together—he owns fighters. If you take his money, if you fight in one of his events, you don't walk away without a price."

Sammy's jaw tightened. "So what, he wants me in his league?"

Rick chuckled. "Not exactly." He flicked his cigarette away and leaned in. "He wants to see if you're worth something first."

Sammy didn't like the way he said that. "What does that mean?"

Rick's smirk grew. "It means he's sending someone after you."

The news came fast. Vinnie had picked an opponent for Sammy—a fighter named Gordo.

The name didn't mean much to Sammy, but Carlos' reaction said enough.

"Shit," Carlos muttered. "That's bad."

Sammy frowned. "Who is he?"

Carlos rubbed his jaw. "Street fighter. Bare-knuckle specialist. He doesn't fight clean. Doesn't fight fair. Just hurts people."

Rick nodded. "You win, Vinnie pays attention. You lose, well… Let's just say Gordo doesn't leave people the same."

Sammy clenched his fists. He had fought tough guys before. But this felt different.

Carlos stepped in. "We don't have much time. If you're fighting him, you need to be ready for dirty tactics."

Sammy exhaled. "Then let's get started."

The next few days were brutal. Carlos pushed Sammy harder than before—focusing on clinch breaks, elbow defense, and, most importantly, how to fight dirty.

"This isn't a sport," Carlos reminded him. "Gordo will bite, headbutt, throw rabbit punches. You have to be worse."

Sammy struggled at first. He had always fought with discipline. But this? This was survival.

Carlos showed him how to frame with his elbows to stop headbutts, how to dig his knuckles into pressure points in the clinch, how to use his forearms to grind against an opponent's face.

By the time fight night arrived, Sammy wasn't just ready.

He was pissed.

The fight was held in an old nightclub, the kind that smelled like stale beer and bad decisions. The ring was smaller than usual, the crowd closer, louder.

Gordo was already in the ring, cracking his knuckles. He was built like a brawler—thick shoulders, scarred knuckles, a nose that had been broken too many times. His grin was all teeth.

Sammy stepped in, rolling his shoulders.

The ref didn't bother explaining the rules. He just looked at both fighters and rang the bell.

Gordo charged.

Sammy barely had time to react before a wild hook came flying toward his face. He ducked, but Gordo wasn't throwing in combos—he was swinging like a man trying to kill.

Sammy slipped another punch, stepped inside, and threw a sharp body shot. It landed, but Gordo didn't react. He grabbed Sammy by the back of the head and slammed a knee into his stomach.

Pain exploded in Sammy's ribs.

He stumbled back, gasping, but Gordo didn't let up. A headbutt came next, smashing into Sammy's forehead. Stars burst in his vision.

The crowd roared.

Carlos' voice rang in his head: You have to be worse.

Sammy wiped blood from his lip. Then he grinned.

Gordo lunged again—this time, Sammy was ready. He let the wild hook come in, barely tilting his head to avoid it, then rammed his forearm into Gordo's throat.

Gordo gagged.

Sammy didn't stop. He grabbed Gordo's wrist, twisted it, then drove a brutal rabbit punch into his ear.

Gordo flinched.

Sammy threw a left hook—Gordo dodged—but that was a feint. Sammy stomped down on Gordo's foot, keeping him in place, and launched a right uppercut.

It landed flush.

Gordo staggered.

Sammy pressed forward, hammering hooks into Gordo's ribs, breaking him down. Gordo tried to clinch, but Sammy bit down on his shoulder just enough to make him flinch.

The ref didn't say a damn thing.

Gordo backed up, dazed. Sammy saw his chance.

He stepped in and unloaded a final right hook.

It landed clean.

Gordo collapsed.

The crowd erupted.

The Aftermath

Sammy stood over his fallen opponent, breathing hard. He had fought dirty. He had fought ugly.

And he had won.

As he left the ring, Rick was waiting. "Vinnie's interested now," he said with a grin.

Carlos placed a hand on Sammy's shoulder. "You sure about this?"

Sammy looked at his bloodied knuckles, then at the roaring crowd.

He knew there was no turning back now.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm sure."

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End of Chapter 5