The city never truly slept.
Los Angeles at night was a monster of its own—lights burning in towers that looked like teeth, streets alive with exhaust smoke and sirens, and shadows where things were whispered, bought, and sold. Jason had never strayed this deep into the belly of the city. Normally, he walked the same paths every day: the mechanic's garage, the streets back home, the pharmacy. That night was different. Sam walked beside him, leading him into a place that smelled of iron and rot, into a neighborhood Jason had never dared to visit.
"Are you sure about this?" Sam asked, breaking the silence. His voice carried unease, though he disguised it with the same grin he wore at the garage. "You don't have to, bro. There are other ways."
Jason said nothing at first. His hands were deep in his jacket pockets, knuckles white around nothing. He thought about Sophie, thought about the coughing that rattled her small chest, thought about the way she tried to hide her pain so he wouldn't worry. That image burned him alive from the inside. He had to do this. For her.
"I'm sure," Jason finally answered, voice flat.
Sam exhaled heavily and shook his head. "Then follow me. But once we step inside, there's no turning back."
The Descent
The two men turned down an alleyway lit only by a single flickering bulb. The stench of garbage and piss was thick. Sam stopped in front of what looked like an abandoned laundromat—boarded windows, a rusted sign half hanging. Without hesitation, he banged his fist on the door three times, paused, then twice more in a rhythm that felt almost ritualistic.
A slit opened in the door. Eyes scanned them.
"It's me," Sam said. "Let us in."
The door unlocked with a metallic click. The guard—a thick-necked brute covered in tattoos—stepped aside. Jason followed Sam in, the air changing instantly. Music thudded from below, muffled but alive, like a heartbeat. The sound of men shouting, cheering, metal clashing faintly against concrete.
They walked down a flight of stairs lined with red neon lights that pulsed dimly, guiding them deeper underground.
The space opened up into an arena Jason could never have imagined.
The Crimson Den
They called it The Crimson Den.
It was no stadium built for sports. It was raw, brutal architecture—concrete walls stained with rust and something darker. Cages made of steel mesh rose from the ground like brutal monuments, surrounded by screaming crowds. Smoke hung in the air, the smell of blood, sweat, and cheap liquor mixing into a haze.
The people there were the strangest mix Jason had ever seen. Ex-cons with tattoos carved into their faces. Gangsters dressed in leather and gold chains. Bandits who looked like they'd never left the desert. But mixed among them were men in tailored suits, businessmen and crime lords betting fortunes with casual smirks, holding glasses of whiskey as if this was theater, and the fighters were nothing but actors meant to bleed for their amusement.
Jason stopped walking for a moment, staring wide-eyed at the chaos.
Sam smirked, throwing an arm over his shoulder. "Welcome to the Crimson Den. Told you it was alive."
Jason swallowed hard. Alive wasn't the word. It was hell—thriving.
Sam's Authority
They moved through the crowd, Sam leading with a confidence Jason didn't recognize. Here, Sam wasn't just the funny, loyal coworker at the garage. Here, people moved aside for him. Men twice his size gave respectful nods, and some even slapped his back like they were old allies.
Jason whispered, "You… know these people?"
Sam grinned. "I've been around. Back in the day, this was my second home. Don't look so surprised."
Jason stared at him. Sam never talked about his past, never hinted at this kind of life. He looked like a man who'd once worn chains but broke them—and somehow came out with influence.
They reached a raised platform at the back of the hall where the noise dimmed slightly. There, seated behind a wide desk stacked with cash, papers, and chips, was a man Jason would never forget.
Victor Crane
The man was built like a viper—lean, sharp, every movement precise. His black hair was slicked back, his suit flawless, though his knuckles were scarred. His eyes, cold steel gray, scanned Sam with a flicker of recognition before lighting up with amusement.
"Well, well," the man said, rising from his chair. "If it isn't Sam 'Ironhand.' How long has it been? Five years? Six?"
Sam chuckled, shaking his hand firmly. "Too long, Victor. Too damn long."
Jason blinked. Ironhand? He'd never heard anyone call Sam that.
Victor Crane turned his gaze to Jason, studying him like a predator measuring prey. "And who's this?"
Sam patted Jason's shoulder. "This is Jason. A good man. Stronger than he looks."
Jason nodded stiffly. "Nice to meet you."
Victor's lips curved into something between a smirk and a sneer. "If you're with Sam, you're worth my time. What brings you both to the Crimson Den? Surely Sam isn't here to step into the cage again?"
Sam chuckled. "Not tonight. My friend here's looking for an opportunity. Thought maybe you could show him the ropes."
Victor leaned back, folding his arms. "Opportunity, huh? Well, let's see what kind of blood he's willing to spill."
The Walk & The Explanation
Victor led them through the arena, explaining as they went. Fighters slammed fists into one another inside cages, bodies crashing against steel mesh as the crowd howled. Blood smeared the ground, coins clinked as bets were exchanged.
"This," Victor said, voice smooth like oil, "is where men come to prove themselves—or die trying. You want to join the ten-thousand-dollar tournament? The buy-in is five hundred dollars. Non-negotiable. That's the price to step into glory."
Jason's stomach tightened. Five hundred dollars. He barely had enough to feed Sophie, let alone that kind of money.
Victor noticed the hesitation. His grin widened. "Of course, not everyone has the money. Which is why we offer alternatives. You can start small—betting fights. Win a few scraps, earn enough to buy your way in. We let new blood cut their teeth there."
Jason frowned. "And if I win?"
"You win," Victor said, "you move up. Get enough wins under your belt, you earn respect. But the real deal—the ten-thousand-dollar tournament? To even touch that, you'll need to show you can survive. Three wins out of five in the qualifiers gets you a payout—two to three grand, depending on the bracket."
Jason's mind raced. Two to three thousand. That would buy Sophie the good medicine. Maybe even more.
Sam muttered, "It's too risky, Jason. You don't know these people. They'll eat you alive."
Jason clenched his fists. "I don't have a choice."
Victor laughed softly. "Ah. Now I see it. That fire in your eyes. You're not here for glory. You're here for something deeper. Debt? Family? Doesn't matter. That hunger makes fighters dangerous."
The Decision
They circled back to Victor's table. The man leaned against it casually, counting a stack of bills without looking at them.
"So," Victor said. "What will it be? You coming back with five hundred? Or are you going to earn your place in the pit?"
Jason looked at Sam, then back at Victor. His throat was dry, but his voice steady. "I'll earn it."
Victor's smile spread wider. "Good answer. Tomorrow night, then. We'll set you up with your first little scrap. Nothing fancy, just enough to see if you've got teeth. Don't be late—or I'll assume you've lost your nerve."
Jason nodded once.
Going Home
The night felt colder when they left the Crimson Den. Jason walked in silence, replaying everything in his head—the cages, the blood, Victor's smile. Sam walked beside him, unusually quiet.
Finally, Sam muttered, "You don't have to do this, bro. Sophie wouldn't want you to."
Jason stopped walking, looking up at the city skyline. "She doesn't have to know." His voice broke slightly, but he steadied it. "I'll do whatever it takes."
Sam sighed, realizing nothing would change his mind. "Then I'll watch your back. But promise me you'll keep breathing."
Jason almost smiled. "I'll try."
When Jason got home, the apartment was dark. Sophie was curled up on the couch, sketchbook in her lap, fast asleep. He tucked a blanket over her carefully, then sat down beside her. For a moment, he just watched her sleep, her face peaceful, unaware of the storm he was about to walk into.
He whispered softly, "I'll fix this. I promise."
And in that quiet, the decision hardened inside him. Tomorrow night, he would step into the pit. Not for glory. Not for himself. For her.