The air in the underground arena tasted of sweat, cheap alcohol, and sheer desperation.
"Brago! Brago! Brago!"
Flexing his jawline and flashing a smile that could blind a lesser mortal, Brago basked in the adoring roar of the crowd. Towering, chiseled, and undeniably majestic, he stood shirtless save for a pair of rugged trousers, effortlessly flaunting a flawless six-pack that defied logic. With every slow, cinematic raise of his hand, the masses swooned, utterly captivated by the undeniable presence of the chosen one.
Beneath the showmanship, Brago's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. He'd heard the whispers from management all week — win big, or make room for someone younger and cheaper. Years at the top meant nothing if this fight went wrong.
"And now, entering the ring, we have a new wrestler!"
The crowd quieted as they turned to look.
"His name is... Flude!"
Flude entered slowly. A mask hid his face, but his long hair was tied neatly in a ponytail, and even with his features covered, the set of his jaw and the line of his shoulders were enough to hold the crowd's stare.
Under the mask, his jaw was tight. His father was lying in a hospital bed right now, fighting for every breath, machines the only thing keeping time. This wasn't just about the hundred thousand dollars — that money could keep him alive. It was about proving, once and for all, that he was better than every wrestler who'd ever stood in this ring, starting with the best one they had.
Brago looked at the new wrestler and smiled, curious about the mask but telling himself it was just for show.
The announcer continued. "Before we begin, remember the only rule of this combat. You can fight however you want, but you must not beat your opponent to death. If your opponent starts bleeding from the mouth or nose, he loses. The one who does not bleed wins."
The crowd screamed with excitement.
"One hundred thousand dollars is the winning prize, and a gold chain awaits the winner. Let's go!"
"This new wrestler has come to face our most well-known fighter. Will he win?"
"No! Brago! Brago! Brago!"
"One!" The announcer called, and the crowd joined him. "Two! Three!"
The bell rang.
Flude and Brago stared at each other from opposite sides of the ring.
Brago moved first — a hard swing aimed straight for Flude's face. Flude slid aside, and before Brago could recover, a kick caught him square in the belly.
The crowd went silent.
"What is happening?" the announcer said. "It seems we are losing our top wrestler!" Stunned, Brago shook off the blow, his mind racing as he realized Flude wasn't just fast — he hit harder than anyone Brago had faced in years. Brago lowered his stance and came in again, more careful this time, testing him with punches and catching him once across the waist.
The impact twisted Flude sideways, and for a moment he lost his footing, but the pain flaring through his side only brought something sharper to the surface — his father's face, the hospital bills piling up, the machines counting down something no one wanted to say out loud, and above all, the shame if he lost. A tiny smile crossed his face. He wouldn't be laughed at, and a single blow wasn't going to decide anything.
He planted his foot and drove forward, forcing Brago onto the defensive. When Brago tried to throw him, Flude dropped his weight and twisted free, driving his leg into Brago's thigh hard enough to buckle it.
The sudden buckling of his leg shattered Brago's remaining focus. Up in the VIP glass, management was watching their champion get dismantled by a nobody, and Brago could feel it — panic, hot and sudden. He looked at Flude and found no satisfaction there, no flinch, nothing but that same unbothered calm, like Brago wasn't even worth taking seriously. That was worse than the pain.
"Brago!" the announcer shouted. "You wrestle like a girl! Come on!"
Some of the crowd laughed, sharp and mocking, before the chant swallowed it again. "Brago! Brago! Brago!" — loud enough to drown out whatever was left of Brago's composure. Humiliation hardened his face. He roared and came in with everything he had.
Flude waited until the last second, ducked under the swing, hooked his leg behind Brago's ankle, and tipped him over.
Crash. Brago hit the canvas hard.
Before he could rise, Flude was on him, pinning his shoulders to the mat, his masked face inches away — cold, unyielding.
The arena fell silent. Up in the glass box, the lead executive's scowl deepened. He hadn't expected Flude to take Brago down this fast, and he didn't like that he had.
Now he wanted to know exactly who this masked wrestler was.