New York came alive at night. Somewhere, bars were buzzing, students were ughing, and elsewhere… elsewhere, people gathered for things that never made it into the newspapers.

  Johnny pulled his bike up to a nondescript warehouse on the city outskirts. A faded "No Entry" sign felt like a mockery of what actually went on inside. At first gnce, it was just another abandoned building, but if you knew where to go, you could find a world hidden from prying eyes.

  A few people were loitering near the back entrance, including Gary—a short, rat-like man. His profession suited his appearance: a small-time crook and bookmaker.

  Johnny had first noticed him six years ago at the police station while visiting his dad. A duty detective had stepped away to the restroom, leaving case files on the desk.

  Johnny took the chance to skim through Gary’s criminal record. Specifically, the part about him organizing bets on underground fights. Even at that young age, feeling the fire burn in his bones, Johnny had decided to save that useful phone number.

  "Is that you?" Gary scratched his unshaven cheek.

  "Yeah," Johnny muttered, taking off his helmet.

  Under the helmet, there was no familiar Johnny. Before each visit here, he painted his face in bck and white skull-like patterns. Not for show. He had already met fighters who tracked down their opponents after matches.

  Besides, a painted mask was more practical in a fight than a fabric one. It was harder to rip off.

  Because of his style, Johnny was nicknamed "El Muerte" here, after the Mexican Day of the Dead.

  Johnny himself couldn’t care less about his nickname. What mattered was anonymity. Even Gary didn’t know his real name, and they arranged their meetings through encrypted chats.

  Gary led Johnny inside past a handful of muscle-bound bouncers whose job was to stall the police in case of a raid while the rich clients escaped through a hidden exit.

  Thanks to Gary, who was well-known around here, no one questioned Johnny.

  Inside, the air was thick with sweat, blood, and expensive cigars. Some ughed, others argued, and smoke hung in the air like a low-hanging cloud. Dim light from grimy mps cast murky shadows over the crowd. High-level managers, gangsters in tailored suits, club girls—they all gathered here for one thing.

  For blood sport.

  The center of the warehouse was an improvised ring—a pce where people stepped in to maim each other. Roughly welded metal barriers separated the ring from the spectators. There were no referees here, no rules. You could punch, break, kill.

  The crowd booed in disappointment as one of the fighters colpsed, blood streaming from his broken nose. The knockout had been... boring.

  Johnny gnced over at the fighters' block. Men in leather jackets, shaved-head punks, ex-cons, bikers, adrenaline junkies, and discharged soldiers.

  Just looking at these scumbags made his bones burn.

  The fallen fighter was dragged off the ring, dumped somewhere outside the warehouse. His spot was quickly taken by a fresh fighter. There was never a shortage of "meat" here.

  People stepped into the ring for three reasons:

  To make quick, easy money. The audience was generous with tips when the ring was drenched in blood. With the right luck, you could earn five thousand dolrs in a single night. But the chances of dying or becoming crippled were much higher.

  To prove themselves. Gangsters constantly lingered among the spectators—once, even Kingpin himself showed up. If you fought well, you might get recruited into a gang. A couple of times, men in fedora hats had approached Johnny with job offers, but they walked away the moment they realized he was from the third category of fighters.

  To quench their thirst for blood. These fighters didn’t care about money. They were here for the thrill. Berserkers fought to the bitter end. They were also the ones who most often died in the ring.

  Johnny hated grouping himself with the berserkers, but only by beating and killing the worst sinners could he extinguish the fire in his skull. Even if just for a while.

  Underground fights were the best solution he could find.

  “Well? Got an eyeful?” Gary approached with a greasy grin. “Everything’s set. Smooth sailing!”

  Coming from a bookie, that phrase transted to: “I just made money off you.”

  Simply bringing in a fighter earned a middleman a hundred bucks. Considering Johnny had to burn off his fire at least once a week, Gary easily pocketed four hundred dolrs a month from him.

  And that didn’t even count the profitable bets Gary pced on his “champion.”

  Money—that was why this rat clung to him, never compining about his anonymity.

  “Ready to fight?” Gary asked as another fighter was carried off the ring.

  “Yes,” Johnny hissed, ignoring the burning in his skull.

  Finally, he would put out the fire.

  Johnny handed his jacket to Gary, left in just his bck tank top.

  The crowd buzzed as El Muerte stepped onto the ring. Some watched him with interest, others with disdain. His brief appearances for just a couple of rounds had not earned him the approval of the bloodthirsty audience.

  “And his opponent tonight is Hammer!” the promoter pointed at a clean-shaven man with a swastika tattoo on his chest. “Hammer comes to us straight from prison, where he served time for murder!”

  The crowd roared in approval. Killers and psychopaths were celebrated here.

  “I see you’re the right race, kid,” Hammer sneered, eyeing his hands. “But you’re still gonna scream!”

  Johnny was no longer listening to the taunts or the crowd’s jeering. It felt as if a tiny bck sun had been pced inside his ribs. And the longer he stared at the sinner, the hotter it burned.

  The fight began.

  Johnny Bze disappeared. There was no police captain’s son, no boxing team captain, no head of the disciplinary committee.

  There was only the real Johnny. A beast that fought with primal brutality.

  He twisted joints, struck at the eyes, the throat, and the groin. He broke every rule of combat sports to cripple his opponent, to win, to punish.

  In the end, he stomped Hammer’s ribs into dust.

  Only raw, vicious cruelty directed at sinners could extinguish the bck sun.

  The crowd accepted Johnny’s victory with mild interest. Low blows weren’t anything special here. Hammer was dragged off the ring.

  “Good fight!” Gary called out from the other side of the cage. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Usually, one act of violence was enough, but today… today, the bck sun burned hotter than ever.

  “No,” Johnny rasped in a voice that sounded like demons cwing at his throat. “I’m not done yet.”

  “Oh!” Gary grinned greedily, already calcuting how much he could make off this. “Stay right here! I’ll set something up!”

  Gary wasn’t a pleasant man, but he knew his job. Within minutes, a new fighter stepped onto the ring. Tall, massive, with a scar under his eye. A military dog tag hung from his neck.

  “Welcome, the Butcher!” the promoter roared. “A deserter who fled to escape a court-martial…”

  Johnny couldn’t listen. The bck sun burned, demanding action.

  He lunged forward, leaping into the air, and drove his foot into the man’s throat, instantly shattering his trachea. The Butcher colpsed and never got back up.

  The crowd stared in stunned silence, struggling to process what had just happened. And when they did, they erupted in wild appuse.

  “El Muerte is on fire tonight!” the promoter bellowed. “A kill in ten seconds! Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new record!”

  Johnny didn’t care. The bck sun wasn’t even close to fading. Staying sane was becoming harder by the second. He knew that if he didn’t extinguish it soon, everyone here would die.

  “Kid, you’re incredible!” Gary shouted from across the cage. “You’re getting a bonus tonight!”

  “More,” Johnny muttered.

  “What did you say?” Gary stepped closer. “I can’t hear you over the crowd.”

  “I want to fight more. Right now.”

  “No problem!” the bookie smirked. “They’ll bring out another fighter.”

  “You don’t understand,” Johnny grabbed him by the jacket through the bars. “I want to fight all of them. At the same time.”

  He knew that if this didn’t put out the sun, nothing would.

  “Kid, do you even know what you’re asking for?” Gary broke into a nervous sweat. “That’s a death sentence!”

  “Do it!” Johnny ordered, shoving him away from the cage.

  “This will take some arrangements,” Gary mumbled, disappearing into the crowd.

  [If I stop now, tomorrow the fmes will blow everything to hell. I have to keep going. Even if it means I won't get out of here alive.]

  Only five minutes passed, but under the heat of the bck sun, Johnny felt like it had been an hour.

  The promoter’s voice boomed across the warehouse.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! I have just been informed that El Muerte cims there is no challenge for him in our esteemed establishment!”

  The crowd murmured in discontent. Someone threw loose change at Johnny. He didn’t care. If this got him what he wanted, so be it.

  "I completely agree with you, esteemed audience!" the announcer continued. "The kid broke a record just once, and look at his arrogance! I say we teach him a lesson! Ladies and gentlemen, El Muerte versus everyone!"

  Johnny smirked slightly as the bloodthirsty men stepped into the cage. But he hadn’t expected them to be armed—knives, clubs, brass knuckles… The only reason they didn’t bring firearms was the risk of hitting the audience.

  Whatever Gary had said, he had seriously pissed off the organizers. Johnny could feel the impatience, aggression, hatred, and thirst for blood radiating from his opponents. They weren’t here to fight. They were here to kill him.

  All the killers lunged at him at once. Johnny didn’t panic. He did the only thing that could help him in this situation—he let the bck sun unfurl its rays, filling his skeleton with power.

  All his senses faded. The smell of sweat and blood disappeared. The shouts of the crowd no longer reached him. The people before him ceased to exist—only sinners remained.

  For the first time, he felt truly alive. For the first time, he felt like Zarathos.

  Johnny met the first attacker with a kick to the throat, instantly snapping his spine. Swiftly pulling his leg back, he struck another opponent in the nose with his knee. Blood sprayed, the nasal bone pierced the brain. Two punished. Five remained.

  He swatted away the next opponent with a punch to the face, knocking out a couple of teeth. Not enough—the sinner had to be punished. He snatched the club from the man’s hands and kept striking until his skull cracked. Four left.

  His enemies hesitated, taking a step back. They were terrified—of his strength, his ruthlessness, his unrelenting energy. Johnny felt like he could keep punishing them all night. No—better yet, for the rest of his life.

  The remaining fighters attacked from all sides. They were too slow. Without stopping for even a second, Johnny struck at vital spots—heart, brain, liver… The sharpened rebar served him well.

  His goal wasn’t to win. His goal was to kill, to punish.

  Only one remained. A fighter with a knife hesitated. He threw the bde at Johnny’s face. Too slow for Zarathos. Johnny casually deflected the projectile with his club, and as it spun midair, he struck it again, sending it back toward its owner. The bde buried itself up to the hilt in his lung.

  All sinners were punished.

  "This guy is the devil himself," hissed the spectator, looking away.

  "He killed them... without saying a word. Bloody psycho!" excimed the woman in the white fur coat.

  "But it was spectacur!" the drunk manager tore off his gold chain and threw it into the cage.

  The crowd roared, showering the ring with hundred-dolr bills. The announcer screamed that he had never seen anything more spectacur in his life. Johnny didn’t care. He was listening to himself. The sun inside his ribs was satisfied with the offering. It withdrew its rays from his bones, shrinking into a bck dot—but it did not disappear.

  As sanity returned, Johnny realized he needed to run.

  Gary opened the cage and… immediately started crawling around the ring, scooping up money. Johnny didn’t care. Adrenaline pounded in his ears, and the sight of corpses at his feet made him nauseous. He had killed in the ring before, driven by the bck sun, but this—this was a massacre.

  He snatched his jacket from Gary and headed for the exit. The rich spectators appuded him along the way. For what? For the sughter? Sick people.

  Of course, leaving quietly wasn’t an option.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man in a white suit blocked his path. His face was unreadable, but there was interest in his eyes.

  Oh, great. The st thing he needed was Kingpin.

  “Mister El Muerte, we haven't been introduced yet. I am Wilson Fisk,” Kingpin began politely. “I must admit, your performance impressed me. I have work for a man of your talents.”

  Fisk didn't make any threatening gestures, but Johnny knew that if he made a sudden move, he would be killed on the spot.

  “Sorry, mister,” Johnny replied just as politely. “I'm not allowed to discuss such matters without my agent present.”

  “Ah, yes, I saw him in the ring,” Fisk smiled knowingly. “Mister El Muerte, I believe you're old enough to accept lucrative offers on your own. Without a middleman.”

  “Sorry, mister,” Johnny repeated politely. “My agent warned me that people would say that. I have clear instructions not to discuss or sign anything without him.”

  Fisk looked at him as if he were an idiot but didn’t press the issue further.

  Johnny would never work for a criminal, but refusing outright was too risky. Despite his heavy build, Fisk wasn’t just fat—under that suit were solid muscles, and he had a bck belt. Not to mention the armed guards standing behind him. And most importantly—Johnny didn’t have the energy to kill anyone else today.

  At st, he stepped out of the warehouse and made his way toward his motorcycle, hidden in a secluded spot. Unfortunately, Gary caught up to him.

  “Kid, that was incredible!” the bookie gushed. “We hit the jackpot!”

  “Yeah,” Johnny muttered, trying to shake him off.

  Gary shoved the money into his hands. Five thousand dolrs for defeating everyone. On top of that, a bonus—crumpled, bloodstained hundred-dolr bills. Johnny quickly stuffed them into his pocket, trying to forget how they were earned.

  “Kid, this is just the beginning…”

  Gary kept rambling, showing no signs of leaving. It was getting annoying. With him tagging along, Johnny couldn't reach his hidden bike.

  “By the way, Gary, you should head back to the warehouse. Wilson Fisk is there,” Johnny said with fake excitement. “He came with a business offer, but I told him I wouldn’t even listen without my agent.”

  “You really said that?” Gary’s surprise quickly turned to excitement. “You did the right thing, kid! Go home, get some rest—I’ll talk to Fisk. We’re gonna make a fortune!”

  “Yeah,” Johnny said, deleting Gary’s contact the moment he turned away.

  Johnny got on his motorcycle and rode off, never to return. Now that he had drawn Kingpin’s attention, underground fights were no longer an option.

  He had never burned himself this badly before, but the worst part was that the bck sun hadn’t faded like it usually did. This time, it had merely shrunk—only to explode with even greater power the next time.