The fight was over. The crowd's roar had faded behind him like a storm retreating into the sea.
Harry walked with a limp toward the dimly lit counter near the back of the underground club. His hoodie was stained with sweat and blood. One eye was swollen shut, and each step throbbed like thunder in his bones. But his hands were steady. Steadier than ever. Victory was still buzzing inside him.
At the cash counter, a bald man in a black vest sat casually with a cigar between his lips, counting a wad of cash. He looked up as Harry approached, grunted, and shoved a few bills across the counter.
"Five ," the man said without looking twice.
Harry blinked. "What? That fight price was ten. You said..."
The man raised a brow. "Kid, you really wanna have this talk?" He leaned in. "You gave us a fake age. You're what—eighteen? Maybe twenty? You lied. You even got the age wrong in the form." He jabbed a finger at Harry's bruised chest. "So here's your option: take the five thousand and leave quietly, or I call in someone who won't be so polite next time."
Harry clenched his jaw. Every instinct screamed to argue, to demand what was fair—but one look at the bouncer near the hallway and he swallowed his pride. The money was still more than he had ever seen in his hands at once. Not enough for justice. But enough to survive.
He took the money. "Whatever," he muttered.
The man chuckled, "Smart kid."
Harry turned and limped out of the club, the neon lights of the alley flickering as if mocking him. Rain had started again, gentle this time, cold against his skin as he disappeared into the night. His fists were aching, his ribs screamed, but his heart? It was strangely calm. He had done it.
He'd won.
By the time Harry reached home, the night had sunk deep into silence. The apartment building looked just as tired as he felt cracks in the wall, peeling paint, and a lightbulb at the entrance that blinked like a dying star.
He pushed open the door quietly.
Inside, the place was dim. The only light came from the small kitchen lamp his mom always left on for him. He didn't want her to see him like this, not with a busted lip, a swollen eye, and blood-stained clothes. He pulled his hoodie lower, shadowing most of his face, and walked into the small living room where she sat on the couch, half asleep with a blanket wrapped around her.
She stirred as the door creaked. "Harry?" she said softly, her voice hoarse with concern.
"Yeah," he said, avoiding her eyes. "It's done. I paid the bills. Rent is covered too."
"What?" She sat up, blinking. "You what do you mean you paid everything?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bundle of notes. He placed it gently on the table beside her. "Here. There's extra. For food… anything."
Her eyes widened. "Where did you get this?"
Harry looked away. "I had some savings. And I asked my manager for an advance. Told him we were struggling."
She stood now, frowning. "Harry, you've been gone all day. No calls. No texts. And now you just walk in, hurt and bleeding, with money in your pocket? This doesn't feel right."
He took a deep breath. "Mom. It's taken care of. Just… trust me on this, okay?"
She moved toward him, reaching to touch his face, but he stepped back gently. "I already ate outside," he lied. "I'm tired. I'm gonna rest."
"Harry…"
"I'm fine, Mom. Really."
He turned and walked to his room without another word, closing the door behind him before she could say anything else.
In the dim glow of his bedroom light, Harry stood in front of his cracked mirror. The reflection that stared back looked barely human bruised, bloody, worn. His nose was slightly off-center. His right eye was a deep shade of purple, and dried blood trailed down his neck.
With a wince, he dipped a cloth in warm water and wiped his face. The water stung like fire against broken skin, but he didn't flinch. This was part of it. This was real.
He touched his nose gently. A sharp jolt of pain shot through his skull. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the bridge, counted to three—and snapped it back into place.
A muffled groan escaped him.
He staggered back and leaned against the wall, panting. The pain blurred his vision for a second. But beneath it all was something else satisfaction. Not pride, not yet. But survival.
He walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped into the cold stream. The water washed away the blood, the dirt, the grime from the fight. Each droplet felt like a needle against his skin, but he welcomed it. He wanted to feel every bit of it. Pain was the proof he was alive.
When he emerged, a towel draped around his shoulders, he looked at himself again.
The boy who had walked into that ring earlier wasn't the same one standing here now. This version of Harry battered, quiet, and scarred had something the other didn't:
Control.
He didn't know where this path would lead. But tonight, for the first time in a long while, he had taken a step forward on his own terms.
He lay on his small bed, staring at the ceiling. The pain in his ribs made it hard to breathe. Every time he moved, a sharp ache reminded him of the cost of what he'd done.
But his lips curled into a soft smile.
The bills were paid. The eviction threat was gone. There was even some cash left under his pillow. And more importantly, he had tasted victory. Not just against Zane—but against life.
He closed his eyes, finally letting his body surrender to the exhaustion.
Sleep came slowly, wrapped in pain, but also in peace.
The next morning, Harry stood in front of the college gates, wearing the same old hoodie that had become his armor. His face bore clear signs of battle bruises scattered like ink stains, a bandage near his jaw, and a slightly swollen nose that he had painfully snapped back into place last night. But his back was straight. His steps were steady.
Each footstep echoed louder than the last as he walked down the corridor of the main college building.
And this time… it was different.
Every head turned toward him. Some students froze. Others whispered. A few pretended to be busy on their phones, but their eyes still followed his every movement.
Harry had no idea what was going on.
He noticed their stares but assumed it was because of the fight marks on his face. He didn't know yet that his underground fight video had gone viral overnight. Uploaded by someone in the audience, it had racked up over five million views in less than twelve hours.
The world had seen him fight like a monster dodging punches, absorbing blows, and delivering a brutal knock-out that left even trained fighters speechless.
They had also seen something else.
Something unreal.
The brief golden glow in his eyes, the unnatural speed in his last punch, and the insane endurance that let him stay standing when no one else could. People online were already calling him "The Pain Tank," "Street Superhuman," and "The Guy Who Doesn't Stay Down."
But Harry didn't know that yet.
All he knew was that no one was laughing at him anymore.
The whispers that used to follow him like ghosts "Isn't that the guy Jessica humiliated?" were now replaced by silence. Thick, heavy silence. The kind that came from fear and curiosity, not mockery.
Even the group of boys who used to laugh loudly every time he passed kept their heads down as he walked by.
He didn't understand why.
Until he saw Jessica.
She stood by the lockers with her usual gang of friends. Jessica the same girl who had once pretended to like him just to humiliate him in front of half the college. Her smile vanished the moment their eyes met.
She looked stunned. Nervous.
She didn't laugh. She didn't smirk. She looked away.
Her friends followed her lead, suddenly interested in their locker combinations and phone screens. Not one of them dared to speak.
Harry felt a strange satisfaction crawl up his spine.
He didn't say a word. He just kept walking.
But the moment didn't last long.
As he turned the corner, Mrs. Royce his English teacher stepped right into his path.
"Harry," she said gently, "can you come with me, please?"
He blinked. "Uh… sure."
She didn't smile.
She led him down the hallway, past the classrooms, to the administrative wing of the college. It felt colder there. Quieter. The posters on the walls about "student success" and "mental health awareness" suddenly felt like lies.
Mrs. Royce closed the door to the counselor's office behind them and motioned for him to sit.
Harry sat slowly, eyebrows furrowed.
"What's going on, ma'am?"
She didn't sit. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. Her expression was full of conflict. Harry could see it she didn't want to say what she was about to say.
"I… I need to tell you something," she began, her voice softer than usual. "This isn't easy for me, Harry. You're a bright student. You've always been respectful. But… there's been pressure."
He tilted his head. "Pressure from who?"
She hesitated, then sighed. "From some parents. Particularly Jessica's and Tyler's. After what happened last week… the fight… and now the viral video…"
Harry's jaw tightened. "I didn't start that fight."
"I know you didn't," she said quickly. "I know, Harry. You were provoked. And honestly? If it were up to me, you'd be rewarded, not punished. But…"
"But?" Harry's voice grew harder.
She looked away for a second, then met his eyes. "The school board held an emergency meeting. The parents involved are powerful. Politically and financially. They threatened legal action, donations being pulled, media attention…"
He felt a knot forming in his chest.
"What are you saying?"
She swallowed. "They've decided to restrict you from the college. Effective immediately."
The room fell into silence.
Harry blinked once. Then again. "You're expelling me?"
She winced. "Not officially expelled. But… yes. You're being asked to leave. You won't be allowed to attend classes anymore."
A sharp pain sliced through his chest—not physical like the injuries on his face, but deeper. Colder.
"I paid the fees," he muttered. "I showed up every day. They humiliated me. They made prank videos..."
"I know, Harry," Mrs. Royce said softly, stepping forward. "I believe you. But I don't have the power to change the board's decision. I fought for you. I really did. But it's done."
Harry looked down, fists clenched in his lap. His knuckles were still bruised from the fight.
He didn't scream. He didn't beg.
He just nodded once.
Then stood up.
"I understand," he said quietly.
"Harry…"
He didn't look back. He walked out of the office, out of the corridor, and through the same gates he had entered less than an hour ago.
This time, the whispers returned—but they were mixed with awe.
As Harry walked away from the college, he felt something boiling inside him.
Not sadness.
Rage.
Not the blind kind. Not the kind that made you reckless.
But the cold kind.
The kind that focused you.
The kind that whispered: They'll regret this.
He reached the sidewalk, pulled up his hoodie again, and looked at the building one last time.
This was the place that mocked him, ignored him, used him and now kicked him out.
Fine.
Let them have their elite halls and rich-kid games.
Harry was done playing small
He had pain and pain made him stronger.
And the next time they saw him… he wouldn't be the outcast anymore. He'd be the storm.