The bus wheezed to a stop like an asthmatic dragon, belching out a cloud of exhaust that could've been classified as a chemical weapon. The smell hit me like a slap from Mother Nature's ugly stepchild—a cocktail of burnt oil, broken dreams, and what I could only assume was the collective disappointment of everyone who'd ever ridden this mechanical torture device.
I grabbed my duffel bag—a battered, army-surplus relic that contained the grand total of my worldly possessions—and stepped onto the cracked sidewalk of Blackridge. The pavement looked like it had been through a war and lost. Badly.
The city didn't bother with a welcome sign. It didn't need one. The graffiti-covered walls served as an artistic declaration of war, the distant sound of sirens provided the soundtrack to urban decay, and the group of guys eyeing me from across the street like I was either lunch or their next mistake delivered the message loud and clear: You're not in Kansas anymore, Nate.
Perfect.
I adjusted the strap of my bag and smirked. Blackridge High was supposed to be a battlefield where reputations were forged in detention and legends were born in the parking lot. I was here to climb my way to the top of whatever food chain this concrete jungle had to offer. No parents to disappoint, no past to escape from—just fists, fury, and an inexplicable talent for finding trouble in a haystack of chaos.
And if the rumors were right, this city spat out weaklings before breakfast and used their bones as toothpicks.
I started walking, memorizing the streets like a general studying enemy territory. Abandoned storefronts stood like broken teeth in the city's smile, their windows either boarded up or decorated with spider webs of cracks that looked like abstract art painted by vandals with commitment issues. A flickering streetlight blinked morse code messages that probably spelled out "ABANDON HOPE" in electrical.
The air tasted like rust and regret, with subtle notes of car exhaust and that particular brand of urban despair that only comes from too many people living too close together with too few opportunities. It was like breathing through a sock that had been used to filter the dreams of failed artists and wannabe gangsters.
Then, cutting through the urban symphony of car alarms, distant shouting, and what sounded like someone's grandmother cursing out a parking meter, I heard a voice.
"Back off. I don't owe you anything."
It was sharp. Female. Not scared—more like irritated, as if these guys had interrupted her plans to reorganize her sock drawer or solve world hunger.
I turned the corner and saw her—a girl who looked like she could've been the poster child for "Small But Mighty." Short, with dark hair tied back in a messy ponytail that suggested she either didn't own a mirror or didn't care what mirrors thought about her life choices. She was surrounded by seven—no, eight—guys who looked like they'd been assembled in a factory that specialized in producing discount thugs. All of them were built like they'd been fed steroids instead of cereal as kids, with the collective IQ of a particularly dim light bulb.
But she wasn't backing down. Chin up, eyes blazing with the kind of fire that could melt steel or at least seriously inconvenience it. She stood there like she was the one who had them cornered, which was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Possibly both.
One of the thugs laughed—a sound like gravel in a blender. "C'mon, Lia. You know how this works. Protection money isn't optional in this neighborhood."
Lia. Good to know. Mental note: Don't mess with Lia.
She crossed her arms with the confidence of someone who'd never met a fight she couldn't talk her way out of or punch her way through. "Protection from what? You losers couldn't protect a cupcake from a kindergartener with anger management issues."
I liked her already. She had style.
The biggest guy—bald as a cue ball and with tattooed knuckles that probably spelled out something profound like "LOVE" and "HATE" or maybe just "SOUP"—stepped forward with all the grace of a refrigerator with legs. "Cute. But jokes won't pay your bills, sweetheart."
Lia's smirk could've cut glass. "Neither will your face, but here we are, living in an imperfect world."
That's when he grabbed her arm with all the finesse of a gorilla trying to perform brain surgery.
Welp. Time to introduce myself to the neighborhood.
I dropped my bag with a theatrical thud that echoed off the buildings like a judge's gavel. "Hey, ugly."
Eight heads turned in perfect unison, like a choreographed dance number for people with serious anger management problems. Lia blinked, looking mildly surprised that someone had interrupted her regularly scheduled confrontation. The bald guy scowled with the intensity of someone who'd just realized he'd been using the wrong end of a toothbrush his entire life.
"Who the hell are you, kid?" he growled.
"The guy who's about to rearrange your dental work into something that resembles modern art." I cracked my knuckles with the satisfaction of someone who'd found their calling in life. "But you can call me Nate. Or 'sir,' if you're feeling formal."
Silence fell like a curtain made of awkwardness. Then laughter erupted—the kind of laughter that suggested these guys found humor in things like kicking puppies and stealing candy from babies.
"You serious, kid?" one of them sneered, revealing teeth that looked like they'd been arranged by someone with a grudge against symmetry. "You're outnumbered eight to one. Can you even count that high?"
I shrugged with the nonchalance of someone who'd made peace with the universe's sense of humor. "Math was never my strong suit. I was more of a 'learn by doing' kind of student."
"You're about to learn real quick," another one chimed in, flexing muscles that probably had their own zip codes.
"Oh good," I said, rolling my shoulders. "I love educational experiences."
Then the bald guy charged like a bull who'd seen red and decided to take it personally.The Fight
His fist came in slow and wide, telegraphed like a birthday card from your least favorite relative. I could've ordered coffee, read a newspaper, and written a strongly worded letter to my congressman in the time it took his punch to reach me. I ducked, feeling the breeze from his knuckles ruffle my hair, and drove my elbow into his ribs with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker having a bad day.
The satisfying oof that escaped his lips sounded like air being let out of a particularly expensive balloon. He doubled over, clutching his side like he was trying to keep his organs from relocating.
The second guy lunged with all the grace of a caffeinated octopus. I sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it in a direction that wrists generally don't appreciate. He yelped like a dog who'd just discovered that mailmen bite back. A quick knee to his stomach, delivered with the enthusiasm of someone who'd found their true calling, sent him to the ground where he wheezed like a deflating whoopee cushion.
Numbers three and four decided to double-team me, which showed they were capable of basic strategic thinking. Unfortunately for them, that's where their intellectual achievements ended.One swung a wild right hook that had all the precision of a drunk flamingo trying to parallel park. I blocked it with my forearm and countered with a left cross that connected with his jaw like destiny meeting opportunity. Crack—his head snapped back with the enthusiasm of a bobblehead doll in an earthquake.
The other one tried to grab me from behind, which was either very brave or very stupid. Given the intellectual caliber I was dealing with, I was betting on stupid. I flipped him over my shoulder with a technique I'd learned from watching too many action movies and having too much time to practice. He hit the pavement with a thud that sounded like a bag of cement discovering gravity.
Five and six hesitated, which showed they were capable of learning. Unfortunately, they weren't capable of learning fast enough.
Five pulled a switchblade that gleamed in the streetlight like a very small, very angry star. Oh, how adorable. He brought a knife to a Nate fight.
He slashed at me with all the finesse of someone trying to carve a turkey while blindfolded and dizzy. I leaned back, feeling the blade miss my throat by an inch—close enough to give me a haircut if I'd needed one. Before he could recover from his wild swing, I grabbed his wrist, twisted it harder than the plot of a soap opera, and heard the distinctive pop of his shoulder dislocating. He screamed like he'd just realized his favorite TV show had been canceled.The knife clattered to the ground with a sound like disappointment hitting concrete.
Six tried to kick me, which showed ambition if not intelligence. I caught his leg like I was fielding a particularly slow baseball, swept his other leg out from under him with the casual efficiency of someone who'd done this before, and watched him hit the pavement face-first. The sound was like a wet slap echoing through the urban canyon.
Seven and eight exchanged a look that clearly communicated, "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all." Then they ran with the speed of people who'd suddenly remembered they had somewhere very important to be—anywhere that wasn't here.
Disappointing. I was just getting warmed up.
I turned back to Lia, who hadn't moved during the entire altercation. She'd just watched with her arms still crossed and one eyebrow raised in an expression that suggested she'd seen more interesting things on her breakfast cereal but there was also something deeper behind them. Her eyes were like Mocha but with a tinge of redness spread over. I had never seen eyes like that before.
"You done showing off?" she asked with the tone of someone commenting on the weather.
Wow, no thank you?
I wiped a speck of blood off my lip—not mine, thankfully. "Depends. You impressed?"She considered this with the seriousness of a judge evaluating Olympic figure skating. "Eh. Six out of ten."
"Six?!" I was genuinely offended. "I just took down six guys without breaking a sweat!"
"You let two get away. That's points off for incomplete work."
I scoffed with the indignation of an artist whose masterpiece had been critiqued by someone who thought velvet paintings were high art. "I was going for dramatic effect. You know, letting them spread word of my legendary prowess."
She smirked with the satisfaction of someone who'd just won an argument without really trying. "Sure you were." Then she nodded at the groaning pile of regret and poor life choices scattered around us. "Thanks for the entertainment. But I had it handled."
I glanced at the guy still clutching his dislocated shoulder like it might run away if he let go. "Yeah. Looked like it."
She rolled her eyes with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd perfected the art. "Whatever, hero. You hungry? Fighting idiots always makes me hungry."The Diner
Lia's family owned a diner called The Rusty Spoon, which was either a charmingly honest name or a health department warning. The place was small, cozy in the way that cardboard boxes are cozy, and smelled like grease and nostalgia had gotten married and decided to raise a family together. It had exactly three customers, all of whom looked like they'd been there since the Reagan administration and had simply grown into the furniture.
The booths were upholstered in that particular shade of red that suggested they'd seen things—terrible, greasy things that had left permanent stains on their synthetic souls. The floor was checkered black and white, though the white squares had long since surrendered to the forces of time and taken on the color of defeat.
She slid into a booth that creaked like it was sharing state secrets and tossed me a menu that looked like it had survived several small wars and a few large grease fires. "Order whatever. On the house."
I scanned the options, which ranged from "Questionable" to "Potentially Lethal." "What's good?"
"Everything. Except the meatloaf. That's a war crime that violates several Geneva Convention articles."
I grinned with the appreciation of someone who'd found a kindred spirit. "Noted. I'll stick to things that won't require a hazmat team."
A waitress—older, with the same sharp eyes as Lia and the weathered look of someone who'd seen everything twice and wasn't impressed either time—dropped off two sodas that fizzed with the enthusiasm of chemistry experiments. "You bringing home strays now, Lia?"
Lia sipped her drink with the casual elegance of someone who'd mastered the art of not caring.
"This one's housebroken. Mostly."
I saluted with my straw like a patriot honoring the flag of carbonated beverages. "Nate. Professional stray and amateur troublemaker."
The waitress snorted—a sound like approval filtered through decades of cigarettes and customer service—and walked off with the confident stride of someone who'd perfected the art of managing chaos.
"So," Lia said, leaning forward with the intensity of a reporter who'd caught wind of a scandal, "why'd you jump into that mess earlier? Most people would've kept walking."
I shrugged with the philosophical acceptance of someone who'd long since given up trying to understand his own motivations. "Boredom, mostly. Also, you looked like you were about to stab someone, and I wanted front-row seats to the show."
She laughed—a sound like music being played by someone who actually knew what they were doing. "Fair enough. But you're new here, right? I can tell because you're not dead yet."
"Just rolled in today on the luxury cruise they call public transportation."
"Then let me give you the official Blackridge welcome speech." She spread her hands like she was unveiling the crown jewels, if the crown jewels were made of disappointment and broken dreams. "Welcome to hell. Population: too many. Average life expectancy: Tuesday."
I took a fry that tasted like it had been blessed by the potato gods themselves. "Charming. Do you have a tourism board?"
"Here's the deal," she continued, clearly warming to her subject. "The city's split between gangs, wannabe mobsters who watch too many movies, and corrupt cops who don't care as long as the checks clear and the donuts are fresh. The school's worse. Fights? Daily. Turf wars? Weekly. Pop quizzes? Hourly. And if you're not with a crew, you're target practice for people with too much time and too few brain cells."
I leaned back, feeling like I'd just been given a tour of paradise. "Sounds like my kind of place."She studied me with the intensity of someone trying to solve a particularly complex equation.
"You're not scared?"
"Should I be?"
"Most people are. Most sensible people, anyway."
I smirked with the confidence of someone who'd never claimed to be sensible. "I'm not most people. I'm barely any people."
Lia's lips curled in what might have been admiration or pity. "Guess we'll see which one of us is right."
The food arrived—a burger for me that looked like it had been assembled by someone who understood the sacred geometry of meat and bread, and some fancy salad for her that actually looked healthy, which seemed out of place in this temple to cholesterol.
I took a bite of burger that tasted like heaven had decided to moonlight in the food service industry. "So why were those fashion-challenged gentlemen after you?"
She stabbed a cucumber with the violence of someone settling an old score. "My family doesn't pay 'protection' money. Which, in Blackridge, is basically an invitation to get hassled by every wannabe tough guy with a grudge against society."
"And you handle it alone?"
"Usually." She shrugged with the casual acceptance of someone who'd made peace with the universe's sense of humor. "My dad taught me how to throw a punch before he taught me how to tie my shoes. Then he bailed when I was twelve. Mom's too busy keeping this place running to worry about my extracurricular activities. So yeah. I handle it."
I nodded with the respect due to a fellow warrior in the battle against stupidity. "What about you?" she asked, tilting her head with curiosity. "What brings you to our little slice of paradise?"
I chewed slowly, buying time. The truth was complicated—flashes of memory that felt like looking at old photographs through frosted glass. Dark rooms, shouting, fear, and then... nothing. Just the knowledge that I was good at fighting and the inexplicable feeling that I needed to understand why.
So I gave her the simple version. "Looking for a challenge."
Lia's smirk could have powered a small city. "Well, Nate. You just found one."
Outside, another siren wailed like a banshee with a public address system. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered with the musical quality of urban percussion.
I grinned with the satisfaction of someone who'd finally found home.
Welcome to Blackridge.