The buzz of the city barely reached Harry as he stepped back into the pizza shop. The doorbell chimed overhead as usual, but everything around him felt distant muted, as though his ears were still ringing from the punch he threw. His mind wasn't in the shop; it was still stuck on that dark alley, the surprise strength in his arm, and more than anything that strange, red glowing vision that appeared before his eyes again.
He placed the empty delivery bag on the counter. His manager, a short, constantly irritated man named Bobby, didn't even glance up from his phone. That was fine Harry didn't want to answer any questions.
He took a deep breath and leaned against the wall for a second, trying to slow his racing thoughts.
What was that power?
He could still feel the echo of the punch the way that man flew into the dumpster like a ragdoll. No normal person could do that.
Then came the red vision, bright and floating in the air like a hologram.
[VisionOS: Activated]
[You have defeated two people in the fight]
[Strength Level: 2]
It had vanished after a few seconds. No one else saw it. Just like last time.
He shook his head. Am I losing my mind? Or is this real?
His phone buzzed. A sharp vibration against the wooden counter. He grabbed it and read the message:
"You have a new order to deliver. Address: 1289 Ridgeway Street. Be quick. No delay this time."
Harry sighed. "Back to reality."
He picked up the still-warm pizza bag, threw on his delivery jacket, and walked toward the delivery bike parked outside. It was already dusk. The orange hue of the setting sun cast long shadows across the road as he revved the engine and pulled away from the shop.
Ridgeway Street was a few blocks away. A mostly quiet neighborhood with old brick houses and rusting street signs. He reached the house quickly, handed over the pizza, collected a tired nod in return, and was about to start his bike again when something caught his eye.
A poster. Torn at the corners and fluttering slightly in the breeze, stuck to a nearby electric pole.
"Underground Street Fight Tournament — Cash Prize $10,000 for the Winner!"
Harry blinked. The address listed below was just around the corner.
His hands tightened around the bike handles.
"Ten thousand dollars?"
The amount lit something inside him. A struggling student like him, with a single mother and unpaid bills, ten grand wasn't just money it was freedom.
Almost on instinct, he turned the bike in the direction of the venue. Just to take a look, he told himself.
The entrance was dimly lit and guarded by a bouncer with arms thicker than Harry's legs. But no one stopped him. People came and went freely. Loud cheers, grunts, and the sound of fists hitting flesh echoed from inside.
Harry stepped in.
The place was a basement converted into a crude arena. Cracked tiles, cheap lights, folding chairs arranged around a square ring made of duct tape and ropes. People of all kinds were shouting and cheering, money exchanging hands at lightning speed.
Inside the ring, two muscular men were locked in a brutal fight. Sweat, blood, and rage poured out with each punch. One of them, a bald guy with tattoos on his back, finally landed a powerful elbow that knocked his opponent to the ground.
The crowd erupted.
Harry stood frozen. Not in fear but curiosity.
Then the announcer's voice boomed:
> "And once again, our winner is BoneBreaker, taking home tonight's prize of $10,000 cash!"
The crowd roared.
Harry's mouth went dry. That was real money. Not like the pennies he earned delivering cold pizza. And he felt strength in his hands today. He knew it wasn't normal. The kind of punch he delivered in the alley it would matter here.
But his phone buzzed again.
> New Order: 237 Hillside Ave. Pick up immediately.
Duty called.
Harry gave the ring one last glance before stepping back out. The noise faded behind him, but the thought lingered like an echo in his mind.
"What if I entered that fight?"
The shift dragged on, but finally, the clock hit 10:00 PM.
Done for the day, Harry parked the pizza bike outside his home. His legs were sore, his shirt clung to his skin with sweat, and his hands still smelled of garlic bread and motorcycle grease.
He unlocked the door and walked inside. His mom was asleep on the couch, the TV flickering silently in the background. He tiptoed past her, straight into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.
But as soon as he stood in front of the mirror he froze.
His reflection looked… different.
His arms were more defined. The veins along his forearm are more visible. His shoulders looked broader. Not like a bodybuilder—but like someone who'd been secretly training for months.
He flexed.
It wasn't his imagination.
He pulled up his shirt. Even his abdomen showed faint lines. Abs. Not fake ones. Real definition.
He stared at himself. Silent.
Then a slow grin crept across his face.
"I like this."
Not just the strength. But the way he felt. Alive. Energized. Capable. The version of himself he had always dreamed of finally starting to emerge.
And it all started… after that injection.
That strange man in the car accident. And then...
The fights.
He turned away from the mirror, mind racing.
Whatever was happening… was just the beginning.
The morning light slid through the curtain gaps, casting golden patterns across the ceiling. Harry stirred in his bed, blinking slowly as consciousness returned. For a second, he thought everything that had happened the strange vision, the sudden strength, the fight, the bullies had just been part of a dream.
But then he sat up.
His shirt stuck slightly to his chest. He looked down.
His abs were still there. Defined, hard, real.
"What the…" Harry muttered, lifting his shirt further and touching the lines running down his stomach. His arms were more defined too, and when he stretched, his shoulder muscles flexed in a way they never had before. There was no denying it anymore something had definitely changed inside him since the injection.
He couldn't stop grinning.
Full of energy and almost giddy with confidence, Harry stepped out of his room and into the kitchen, where the smell of toast and eggs greeted him. His mom, in her faded cardigan, stood at the stove, flipping eggs onto plates. She turned as Harry walked in.
"Morning, champ," she said, smiling tiredly. "You're up early for a weekend."
Harry shrugged, grabbing a seat. "Couldn't sleep much. Feeling...good, I guess."
He started eating, humming softly to himself, his appetite stronger than usual. For a few minutes, it was just quiet, the kind of normalcy Harry hadn't felt in a long time.
But the peace didn't last.
His mom sat down across from him, holding a stack of mail. Her smile had faded. There were creases of worry on her face now.
"Harry… I need to talk to you about something."
He paused mid-bite.
"The rent's due this week," she said softly, placing a folded paper on the table. "And the electricity bill's behind again. I tried calling the landlord to ask for a few more days, but he said no more delays."
Her voice cracked slightly at the end.
Harry felt something twist in his chest. His mom looked exhausted, her eyes ringed with sleepless nights. She was doing her best, working a part-time cleaner job, but the bills were too much. They always were.
He straightened in his chair. "Don't worry, Mom. I've been saving up. I'll take care of it."
She looked at him, hopeful. "Really?"
He forced a smile. "Yeah. I got it."
But as soon as she turned away to wash dishes, Harry pulled out his phone and opened his bank app. The screen loaded, and the number hit him like a punch in the gut.
$103.78.
That wasn't even enough for the electricity bill, let alone rent.
His hand dropped to his lap, and he stared at the floor. Panic crept into his chest, quiet and suffocating. He couldn't let his mom see him like this. Couldn't let her worry more.
So, he got up, muttered something about stepping out, and slipped on his hoodie.
Outside, the world was busy, cars passing, people walking dogs or sipping coffee, all unaware of Harry's crashing world. He walked aimlessly, trying to think. One option flashed in his mind asking for his salary in advance from the pizza shop.
It wasn't much, but maybe it would be enough.
He rushed to the shop, weaving through traffic, and arrived breathless. The manager, a thick-bellied man with a mustache too big for his face, was behind the counter, calculating orders.
"Hey, Mr. Lowell," Harry started. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
The man raised an eyebrow but nodded.
"I... I was wondering if I could get my paycheck in advance. Just for this month. I'll still work all my shifts, and I'll even take more deliveries if needed."
Mr. Lowell snorted. "Advance, huh? For what?"
"Family stuff. We're behind on rent and..."
"No," Lowell interrupted flatly. "You're already on thin ice, Harry. Last weekend you were late for three deliveries. Customers complained."
"I know, but..."
"But nothing. You want to keep this job, show up on time and don't mess around. And don't even think of asking for favors again."
He turned back to the register, dismissing Harry like a fly.
Harry walked out with a lump in his throat, fists clenched in his hoodie pocket. So much for help.
He wandered down the street, kicking pebbles, feeling more hopeless than ever. His thoughts spiraled What if they got evicted? What if his mom got sick again?
Then something caught his eye.
The same poster from yesterday's bold red poster printed across an old wall:
"STREET FIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP – WIN $10,000 CASH! Tonight, 6 PM."
Underneath was the address. The same underground club he'd visited yesterday out of curiosity.
Harry stared at the poster. His fists clenched tighter.
$10,000.
He looked at his hands that had thrown a bully across a dumpster without trying. He remembered the voice in his head. The glowing interface.
[VisionOS : activated]
[Strength Level : 2]
Was this a sign?
He had power now. Something real. Something useful. Maybe it came with a cost but right now, he didn't care.
With renewed determination, Harry headed back to the fight club.
Inside the dark alley leading to the underground arena, he found the check-in table. A bored-looking woman sat behind it, typing on an old laptop. A couple of muscle-bound men stood nearby, chatting.
"I want to register," Harry said.
The woman looked him up and down, unimpressed. "Age?"
Harry hesitated. The rules had been clear: Fighters had to be 25 and up. He didn't even look 20.
"Twenty-five," he lied.
She raised an eyebrow. "You sure? You look like you just hit puberty."
Harry smirked. "Hard life. Makes you age faster."
She rolled her eyes, handed him a tablet, and said, "Fill out the waiver. If you die, we're not responsible. Sign here."
Harry gulped, but filled the form anyway, writing a fake birth year. After all, he'd already faced death once. What was one more risk?
Once registered, they gave him a small locker tag and told him to come back at 6 PM sharp. His fight would be scheduled that same night.
Harry walked out of the club with a strange mix of fear and adrenaline humming in his veins. He had no idea who he would face, how skilled they'd be, or what kind of brutal experience this would be.
But he knew one thing: He had to win.
For his mom. For their home. For the chance to finally stop being the loser everyone laughed at.
His journey whatever it was becoming was no longer just about power. It was survival.
And tonight, in the underground world of fists and blood, Harry would step into the ring.