The announcer roars:

  “LET THE FIRST FIGHT BEGIIIIIN!!!”

  The opponent is a stocky boxer, veteran air.

  Broad shoulders. Crooked nose. Eyes of someone who’s seen enough cages to not be impressed by a clean-faced, athletic kid.

  The match starts.

  Jason slips. Blocks. Moves well.

  Too well.

  A sidestep, a re-entry, a tight guard that doesn’t belong to a self-taught fighter. The veteran notices. Understands.

  And shifts tempo.

  Then—impact.

  A punch Jason doesn’t see coming.

  Not because it’s slow.

  Because the other guy is smart.

  For an instant the world tilts, like the cage spun on itself. Neon turns into a streak. Smoke stretches thin.

  A thought, dry, fast as a whip crack:

  Oh shit… it’s already over.

  Full hook to the face.

  Jason drops. First to his knees. Then all fours. Cold floor scraping his palms. His heart hammering in his ears louder than the crowd.

  Metal rises in his mouth.

  Warm blood, coin-taste.

  The boxer approaches, confident. Doesn’t rush. No hurry. That almost paternal look predators get when they know the prey is already halfway gone.

  “You’re done, kid… you shouldn’t have come here.”

  Jason stays down.

  Head low. Shoulders shaking.

  Looks like he’s crying.

  The boxer watches him. Waits for the break. He’s sure he bought him with one punch.

  “Give up and let’s end this.”

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  One step closer, voice faking mercy.

  “So I don’t have to hurt you.”

  And then Jason… laughs.

  A short laugh. Dirty spit of air. Like he just heard the dumbest joke in the world.

  He gets up.

  Eyes watery—can’t tell if it’s pain or adrenaline. Wide grin. A bruise blooming on his cheek. Blood running from his nose, cutting across his lip.

  He looks at the boxer like you look at something that’s not scary anymore.

  “That was a punch?”

  A beat.

  “Felt like a caress.”

  The veteran freezes. One second too long.

  And in that second Jason hears the real voice—the one that stuck after months with Michael.

  Not a motivational line.

  A cold fact.

  After Michael… these guys hit like little girls.

  A heartbeat.

  I can do this.

  Jason explodes forward.

  No explosions. No god.

  Just work.

  Exchange.

  Slip. Block. Strike.

  Distance collapses. Rhythm breaks. Jason goes in and out like a blade testing where flesh gives.

  Technique.

  Targeted shots: side of the neck. Behind the ear. Nerve point under the jaw.

  Precise. Clean.

  Mean.

  The boxer tries to clinch, to dirty it up, to use weight and grab.

  Jason doesn’t let him.

  A pivot. A slipping shoulder. A short strike that looks like nothing… until your brain shuts off.

  Then Jason stops.

  Silence.

  For one second the crowd stops existing. Even the screams choke off, like someone cut the sound.

  The boxer is out on his feet.

  Still upright, eyes empty, arms loose. The body hasn’t gotten the message yet.

  Then the knees give.

  And finally he crashes to the floor—heavy, undignified.

  Jason stays there.

  Breathing.

  Calm.

  Like he just flipped a switch.

  For a moment the arena isn’t hell anymore.

  It’s still.

  A strange silence. Thick. Almost unnatural. Like even the neon, the smoke, the grates held their breath with them.

  Then someone breaks it with a voice thick with anger.

  “Fuck… I lost my money.”

  Another explodes right after, louder.

  “Me too, goddamn it! What the fuck?!”

  From the back, between packed bodies and raised glasses:

  “Who the hell is that?!”

  “How old is he?!”

  Inside the cage, Jason stands.

  Blood on his lip. Nose dripping. Eyes dry now. Shoulders steady.

  He doesn’t celebrate.

  Doesn’t look at the body with pity.

  He looks at it like an obstacle cleared.

  A whisper runs through the rows, filthy and disbelieving.

  “He’s just a fucking kid…”

  And up in the dark stands, some eyes aren’t laughing.

  They’re measuring.

  Pistol Boy.