The Real World

I should have asked what he meant.

I should have questioned what I had just stepped into.

But I didn't.

Because deep down, I already knew.

This wasn't just another underground fight club.

It was something bigger.

Something real.

And I wanted in.

After my fight with Grimm, I was given two options.

Leave, forget everything, and never come back.

Or stay and become something more.

I didn't hesitate.

I chose to stay.

The next week was brutal.

This wasn't just about fighting anymore.

They wanted to see how far I could go.

How much punishment I could take.

How much pain I could endure before breaking.

So they pushed me.

Hard.

The first test was simple.

I was thrown into a three-on-one fight.

No time to prepare. No warning.

Just three men stepping into the pit, all of them bigger, stronger, and more experienced than me.

The bell rang.

They came at me like animals.

I didn't run.

I didn't hesitate.

I met them head-on.

The first punch caught me in the ribs.

The second slammed into my jaw.

The third hit me so hard I saw stars.

But I didn't fall.

I didn't stop.

I let them hit me.

Let them think I was breaking.

Then I moved.

Fast.

I grabbed the closest one, drove my knee into his stomach, then spun and slammed my elbow into his temple.

He dropped.

The second one hesitated.

A mistake.

I stepped in, grabbed his arm, and twisted—SNAP.

He screamed.

Two down.

One left.

The last guy tried to run.

I didn't let him.

I grabbed him by the neck, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into the concrete.

He didn't get back up.

The room was silent.

Then, slow claps echoed through the pit.

The man in the suit stood above me, nodding.

"Good," he said. "You're ready for the next level."

I wiped the blood from my lips and grinned.

"Bring it on."

The next test was worse.

They took me to a room.

No windows. Just a single chair in the center.

"Sit," they said.

I did.

Then they strapped me down.

And started cutting.

I don't know how long it lasted.

Minutes? Hours?

All I know is that they wanted to see how much pain I could take before begging.

Before breaking.

They used knives.

Fire.

Electric shocks.

They shattered my fingers, dislocated my joints, burned my skin.

And the whole time, I just stared at them.

Smiling.

Because I knew something they didn't.

I. Could. Not. Die.

So I let them do their worst.

Let them push me past my limits.

And when they were finally done—when they finally stepped back, panting, frustrated, confused—

I just cracked my neck, flexed my hands, and whispered:

"Is that all you got?"

After that, things changed.

I wasn't just another fighter anymore.

I was something else.

Something more.

And they knew it.

They stopped testing me.

Stopped questioning me.

Instead, they started training me.

Not just in combat.

But in war.

Guns. Knives. Strategy.

How to kill quickly. How to kill slowly.

How to disappear.

How to blend in.

I wasn't just a fighter anymore.

I was becoming a weapon.

And I loved it.

Weeks passed.

Then months.

By the time they finally let me out into the world again, I was different.

Sharper. Colder.

Stronger.

I wasn't just fighting for fun anymore.

I was fighting because it was the only thing that made sense.

The only thing that felt real.

And they had given me a purpose.

A mission.

A target.

That night, I stood on the rooftop of a high-rise, looking down at the city below.

The world felt small now.

Like it didn't matter.

Like nothing mattered.

Except for the fight.

Except for the next kill.

And as I clenched my fists, feeling the raw power coursing through me, I finally understood.

I wasn't just unstoppable.

I wasn't just unkillable.

I was something else entirely.

And the world?

The world was about to find out what I really was.

---

The city stretched out before me, a sea of flickering lights and restless movement. I could hear the distant hum of traffic, the occasional siren cutting through the night.

But none of that mattered.

Tonight, I had a job to do.

A name. A target. A purpose.

And nothing was going to stop me.

His name was Marcus Voss.

A billionaire. A criminal. A monster hiding behind wealth and power.

He ran one of the biggest underground trafficking rings in the country.

Drugs. Weapons. People.

He sold everything—as long as the price was right.

And tonight, he was going to die.

By my hands.

I had studied him for days.

Watched his movements.

Learned his habits.

He was careful, surrounded by armed men at all times.

But everyone makes mistakes.

Even the powerful.

And Marcus?

His mistake was routine.

Every Friday, he visited a private club.

Exclusive. Hidden. Untouchable by law enforcement.

A place where men like him could indulge in whatever twisted desires they had.

He thought he was safe.

He thought no one could touch him.

He was wrong.

Getting inside was easy.

Money opened doors, and I had plenty of it now.

The bouncer barely glanced at me as I stepped through the entrance, into a world of decadence and corruption.

Soft music played. Laughter and whispered conversations filled the air.

Men in expensive suits lounged in velvet booths, sipping on thousand-dollar drinks.

Women—some willing, some not—moved between them like shadows.

I ignored all of it.

My eyes locked onto him.

Marcus Voss.

Sitting in the back, surrounded by bodyguards.

Smug. Untouchable.

Not for long.

I moved through the room like a ghost, unnoticed, unseen.

I wasn't dressed like a threat.

No weapons visible. No aggression in my stance.

Just another rich man in a dark suit.

But I wasn't here to drink.

I was here to kill.

I sat at the bar, close enough to watch him.

Close enough to strike when the moment was right.

His men were relaxed.

They didn't expect trouble here.

Not in their domain.

I waited.

Watched.

And then—opportunity.

Marcus stood up, stretching.

He said something to his guards, laughing, then walked toward the back.

A private room.

Alone.

I followed.

The hallway was dimly lit.

Red walls. Thick carpet.

Music muffled behind closed doors.

Marcus entered his private suite, closing the door behind him.

I was right behind him.

Before the guards could react, I stepped through the door and locked it.

Marcus turned, startled.

His drink sloshed in his hand.

"Who the hell—"

I didn't let him finish.

I moved.

Fast.

A single step, a single punch—CRACK.

His nose exploded in blood.

He staggered back, eyes wide.

"What—"

I grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall.

"Marcus Voss," I said, my voice calm. "You've done a lot of bad things."

He choked, gasping.

His hands clawed at mine, desperate.

"Wait—" he sputtered. "I can pay—"

I squeezed harder.

His face turned red.

"Money won't save you," I whispered.

Then I snapped his neck.

Quick. Clean.

Effortless.

The body slumped to the floor.

Lifeless.

For a moment, I just stood there.

Watching.

Feeling... nothing.

No satisfaction.

No guilt.

Just emptiness.

Like always.

The door rattled.

His guards.

I had seconds.

I grabbed a knife from the table.

Stepped to the side.

The door burst open.

Two men rushed in.

Guns drawn.

Too slow.

I slit the first one's throat before he could fire.

Blood sprayed across the wall.

The second hesitated.

I didn't.

I drove the knife into his chest, twisting.

His scream was brief.

Then—silence.

I wiped the blade on Marcus's suit.

Stepped over the bodies.

Time to leave.

I walked out of the room, blending into the crowd.

No one looked at me.

No one knew.

To them, I was just another face in the sea of corruption.

And then I was gone.

Back on the rooftop, I lit a cigarette.

Stared down at the city.

The mission was done.

The first of many.

Because Marcus Voss was just a piece of the puzzle.

And I wasn't done yet.

Not even close.