The Forge's front door creaked open at dawn. Blaze entered alone, headphones in, hoodie up. The gym was darker than usual, shadows stretching across the floor like long arms.
But something had changed.
On the wall, near the ancient speed bag, a flyer hung pinned with fresh tape:
HEADLINE MATCH WINNER: $25,000 PURSE — SONS OF THE STREETS INVITATIONAL
Blaze pulled the flyer down, reading it again. The sponsor's logo was faint, but recognizable—Rimfire Promotions, a regional outfit known for spotlighting rising underground talent. Below the headline: "No judges. Just knockouts."
Zion entered moments later, nodding when Blaze held the paper up.
"You're ready," he said.
"You sure?" Blaze asked, though he already knew the answer.
"That card doesn't go on walls by accident. They're not scouting. They're inviting."
Blaze folded the flyer. "Then let's make them remember."
---
The Sons of the Streets Invitational was held in a converted textile mill outside the city. Grimy. Loud. Unofficial. Everything smelled of steel, old blood, and engine grease.
It was the type of venue where broken noses were considered warmups and no one asked for medical clearance. Fighters came for blood. Spectators came for the feeling of rebellion.
The purse money came from private sponsors, silent partners, and under-the-table bets. No cameras. No streaming rights. Just fists, stakes, and teeth.
Blaze walked in with Zion, past crates of electrical equipment and metal staircases wrapped in rust. The air was dense with smoke. Electric. Raw. Above the ring, a banner hung: NO GLOVES. NO MERCY.
Backstage, Blaze wrapped his own hands. No trainers. No assistants. Just Zion, watching in silence.
"Fifth fight on the card," Zion said, checking his watch. "You go out right after Gutshot and Marquez. Crowd'll be fired up. Don't feed them. Control them."
Blaze nodded. He could hear the distant roar of the crowd, like a storm rolling closer.
His opponent: Reggie Cross. A walking tank with cement fists and no respect for cardio. Reggie had a reputation—twelve street wins, six KOs, and no strategy. Just pain.
Zion had done the homework. "Reggie's tough. But dumb. Bait him. Then counter the overload."
As Blaze stood behind the curtain of scrap metal they used for walkouts, he rolled his neck side to side. Focused.
The announcer screamed into the mic. The metal curtain lifted.
He stepped out into the chaos.
---
Reggie charged from the bell.
His first punch whooshed past Blaze's shoulder.
Blaze didn't swing. Not yet.
He tested angles. Sidestepped. Moved just enough to irritate.
Reggie came harder.
Zion watched from ringside. He knew the first round was all calculation. Blaze needed to download Reggie's patterns like code.
By round two, Blaze shifted up. He landed a clean cross. Then a body shot. Then slipped out.
Reggie started to slow.
In round three, Blaze saw the window.
He dipped, parried a hook, then unleashed a four-punch combo that ended with a right uppercut Reggie never saw coming.
The bigger man collapsed. Flat. No twitch. Just a heavy, unconscious body smacking against the makeshift mat.
Silence.
Then the roar.
The ref didn't count. He waved it off.
Blaze stood over his opponent a moment, then turned to Zion. The fire in his eyes had changed—it was colder. Sharper. Professional.
---
Backstage, while the medics tended to Reggie, a man in a leather coat handed Zion an envelope. Thick.
"Twenty-five," he said. "Clean. Well-earned. Not many can drop Cross."
Zion opened it slightly, saw the cash, and passed it to Blaze.
It was the most money Blaze had ever held.
The paper was real. The weight of it undeniable.
He stared at it for a long time.
"You just paid rent for a year with two rounds," Zion said.
Blaze grinned. "Not bad for a night's work."
But the real surprise came later.
At a rundown diner two hours after the fight, Zion's phone buzzed. He showed Blaze a text.
Vic: "Heard from Arclight Apparel. They want Blaze for a campaign. Fifty grand. One shoot day. They want grit. They want 'underdog energy.'"
Blaze blinked. "That a joke?"
Zion shook his head. "It's the first wave. You're not just a fighter anymore. You're value."
Blaze looked down at his bruised knuckles. He had trained for survival. Now survival was making him money.
"Guess I'm an investment now," he muttered.
---
The next morning, Blaze did something he hadn't done in years. He went home.
His mother's apartment was cramped, still smelled faintly of disinfectant and burnt toast. But it was warm.
He knocked lightly. She opened the door, eyes widening.
"Blaze?"
He didn't speak. Just held up two grocery bags, then handed her an envelope. Inside—four months of back rent.
Her hands trembled.
"I told you I'd come back better," he said.
She reached out, touched his face. "You look tired."
"I'm working," he replied. "But this time, I'm winning."
On the way out, he dropped a thick roll of bills in the donation box at the corner church. The one he used to sit outside with a growling stomach, watching other kids leave with lunch bags.
Then he walked back to The Forge.
Not to train. Not yet.
He just stood there, watching the dust catch the morning light.
Zion approached from behind.
"Still think you're just a fighter?"
Blaze shook his head. "I think I'm a brand."
Zion smiled faintly. "Now let's teach you how to build an empire."
Because it was never just about fists.
It was about legacy.
And now, Blaze was being paid to write his name in fire.