The morning light filtered through the cracked blinds of their small apartment. The air was quiet, broken only by the faint humming of the city outside. Sophie stirred from sleep, her face brushing against the pillow as her eyes opened slowly. She smelled something she hadn't in a long while—warm food.
The scent led her to the little wooden table in their cramped living room. A plate of eggs, bread, and a glass of water sat neatly on a tray. Next to it was a folded piece of paper. Sophie's small hands unfolded the note, her eyes sparkling as she read it aloud, her voice still drowsy.
"I would be out late today, make sure you enjoy yourself. Love you."
Her lips curled into a smile, her eyes shining with that innocent warmth only a twelve-year-old could hold. She sat down, whispered "thank you, big bro" to no one in particular, and dug into her breakfast with joy. For a moment, her coughing chest and pale face seemed forgotten—she was just a little girl enjoying the simple love of a brother who tried harder every day.
---
Meanwhile, Jason walked the bustling streets of Los Angeles with weary steps. His boots hit the pavement without rhythm, his eyes darting from one shop to another, scanning windows plastered with "Help Wanted" signs.
First stop—a clothing store. He pushed open the glass door.
"Sorry, we need someone with experience in retail," the manager told him before he could even finish his introduction.
Next—a fast-food restaurant. "You need a high school diploma at least," the young assistant manager said, almost apologetically.
Third—a construction site. "Union papers?" the foreman asked. Jason's silence was the answer. "Then, sorry, can't take you."
By noon, Jason's shoulders slumped. He had walked miles, sweat soaking his shirt, rejection after rejection weighing him down. Every place demanded something he didn't have: certificates, years of experience, paperwork, or connections. In his past life—the old him—none of this mattered. He would have fought his way through anything. But here, in this world, in this new life, the rules were different.
He sat down on a bench outside a convenience store, staring at the cars speeding by. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. His mind replayed the night before—Sophie's cough, her fragile smile, the price tag on those drugs. His chest ached with helplessness.
---
By the time he dragged himself back to the garage that afternoon, his coworkers could tell something was off.
"Jason, you okay?" one of them asked, wiping grease from his hands.
Jason only gave a faint smile. "Yeah, I'm good. Just… tired."
Another nudged him. "Man, you've been carrying the whole shop lately. What's wrong?"
Jason shook his head, keeping his eyes low. "I just need some space."
The others exchanged worried looks but let him be. He leaned against his workbench, staring at the floor, his heart heavy. He was close to losing hope. What else could he do?
Then, a familiar voice broke the silence.
"Bro," Sam said, walking over, "you didn't show up all morning. What's going on?"
Jason didn't respond. He rubbed the back of his neck and pretended to be busy with a wrench. Sam studied him for a moment, then sighed. He didn't press further. Instead, he walked back to his own bench and grabbed his toolbox.
But when he returned, he didn't set it on his table—he dropped it on Jason's workbench with a loud clank. A flyer, slightly crumpled and greasy at the edges, slid across the surface.
Jason glanced at it lazily at first, uninterested. But then his eyes landed on the bold print at the bottom:
"Winner's Purse: $10,000."
His breath caught. Ten thousand dollars. His heart started racing. That was more than enough to buy Sophie's medicine, food, clothes, and even keep the lights on for months.
"What's this?" Jason asked, picking up the flyer.
Sam shrugged. "Street fighting tournament. Happens every couple of weeks. Underground, not legal, not safe." He leaned in. "But people gamble on it, and the payout's real if you win."
Jason stared at the bold letters, his hand tightening around the paper. The word payout burned into his mind.
"Ten thousand…" he whispered.
Sam caught the look in his eyes. His face hardened. "Don't even think about it."
Jason looked up, startled.
"You're not built for that, Jason. Those guys… they don't play. You could get killed in your first match, or worse—end up crippled. This isn't some movie, it's real. Bones snap. Blood spills. I've seen guys leave on stretchers."
Jason gave a small, crooked smile. "And you've seen guys win too, right?"
Sam frowned. "Yeah, but—"
"I need this money, Sam."
"For what?"
Jason hesitated. He could lie. He could say rent, bills, food. But for once, he didn't want to hide the truth.
"For Sophie."
Sam's eyes widened. Jason's tone was so raw, so heavy, it silenced him. Jason continued.
"I went to the pharmacy yesterday. Cheapest meds for her age, and I couldn't even afford half of what she needs. You know what that feels like? Watching your little sister cough herself to sleep and not being able to do a damn thing?"
His fists clenched, his voice shaking. "I can't stand it, Sam. I won't just sit back and watch her fade away. If this fight is dangerous—fine. If it's risky—fine. But if it gives me the chance to save her, then it's worth it."
Sam swallowed hard. His chest tightened. He wanted to argue, but Jason's words cut too deep. Still, he tried.
"You don't get it, bro. Those guys in the ring aren't mechanics. They're monsters. Ex-cons, gangsters, trained fighters. You'll be throwing yourself to wolves."
Jason smiled again, but this time it was cold. "Then I'll be the wolf that bites back."
Sam rubbed his face in frustration. "I can't talk you out of this, can I?"
Jason shook his head.
Sam exhaled slowly, defeated. "Fine. But if you're doing this, you're not doing it alone. I'll at least make sure you don't walk in blind."
Jason looked at him, gratitude flickering behind his tired eyes.
"Thanks, Sam. Really."
Sam muttered, "Don't thank me. Just don't die."
Jason chuckled softly. "I'll try my best."
The flyer remained in his pocket for the rest of the day, the crumpled paper feeling heavier than any tool he lifted. Every time Jason touched it, he thought of Sophie—her smile, her cough, her drawings. Ten thousand dollars wasn't just money; it was her chance at life.
For Jason, the decision was already made.
He was going to fight.
---