It was night. Tatsumi was heading home after yet another day working as Misaki's security.
He walked without a care, hands tucked into the pockets of his usual clothes, clothes that, conveniently enough, also doubled as his uniform.
The city streets were bathed in light from streetlamps and passing car headlights. Between the occasional trees planted with deliberate care and the more-than-peculiar appearances of this world's inhabitants, the place had a charm all its own.
But Tatsumi had no headspace to appreciate any of that.
His expression was distant, eyes unfocused as he moved on instinct alone, trusting muscle memory to guide him back home.
'Rent's due the day after tomorrow… ninety-five thousand yen. I still can't believe I'm paying that kind of robbery for that old dump where it's basically just us living there.'
He pulled out his phone and gave his bank balance a quick glance.
'Fifty-two thousand… damn it. I really need to cut back on the drinking.'
It was worth mentioning that his current contract with Misaki paid him one hundred and eighty thousand yen a month, cheap by any standard. It was informal, unprofessional work, and on top of that, Tatsumi didn't even have a Quirk that could set him apart. Naturally, his price had been pushed as low as it could possibly go.
Even so, thanks to the life of vices he and Kong led, burning money on cigarettes, alcohol, and delivered food, more than half of that income disappeared every month.
Then a thought might cross your mind: well, they obviously split the rent, right? They live together, after all.
That would make sense... if Kong had a job.
He didn't.
Though he hated admitting it, Kong was effectively unemployed. His only contribution was scouting jobs and clients for Tatsumi so he could keep the place afloat.
Hard labor had never really been Kong's thing.
'Where the hell am I supposed to get almost forty thousand yen in two days?' Tatsumi thought, his head hanging low under the weight of his own life choices.
Smack
A piece of paper hit him square in the face.
Tatsumi flinched as the paper smacked him in the face.
— The hell…?
Annoyed, he grabbed it and was about to tear it apart when his eyes briefly skimmed over the contents.
A flyer.
Underground Fight Club.
Enter. Fight. Win. Get Paid.
Simple. Fast. Easy.
His brow twitched.
'Who's the idiot handing out flyers for an underground fight club…? And who the hell would walk into that trash actually believing it?'
His expression hardened. Without another thought, Tatsumi crumpled the paper into a tight ball and tossed it behind him.
It sailed cleanly through the air and dropped straight into a restaurant's trash bin.
Perfect shot.
Hands back in his pockets, he kept walking, irritation written all over his face.
He turned the corner.
Ten seconds later.
...He came sprinting back, nearly slipping and eating pavement, eyes wide with shock.
Before anyone could react, Tatsumi practically dove into the trash bin and fished the crumpled flyer back out.
People nearby stared at him with open disgust, stepping away as if he smelled worse than the garbage itself.
Tatsumi didn't care.
Ignoring every judgmental look thrown his way, he unfolded the flyer again, this time with wide eyes, scanning every word, every detail, as if his life depended on it.
At first, it was just instinct, his eyes moving on their own, rereading the same lines over and over again. Simple words. Blunt promises. No flashy slogans, no heroic nonsense.
Enter. Fight. Win. Get Paid.
'If… if this is actually real…'
The thought crept in before he could stop it.
Underground meant illegal. Illegal meant no heroes, no paperwork, no questions asked. No Quirks required. No licenses. Just fists, pain, and results.
Exactly the kind of place where someone like him could exist without being looked down on.
'It's obviously a scam…'
He knew that, of course he did. Anyone with half a brain would.
And yet-
'But if it isn't…'
Almost forty thousand yen. That was all he needed.
Just one win... maybe two?
His fingers tightened around the paper without him realizing it. The numbers started forming in his head, stacking themselves neatly, dangerously. Rent paid. Drinks without counting coins. Cigarettes without guilt. Food that didn't come from the cheapest menu on an app.
The temptation dug its claws deeper.
Then-
Scrape
The harsh sound of bristles against concrete snapped him back to reality.
— Hey! Get away from there!
A restaurant employee had stormed out the back door, gripping a broom like a weapon. His face was twisted in annoyance as he jabbed it forward, swatting at Tatsumi's legs and torso without hesitation.
— Shoo! Shoo! You think this is a dumpster dive attraction? Beat it!
Tatsumi staggered back instinctively, arms raised as the broom chased him away like some kind of stray animal.
— Tch!
He clicked his tongue, retreating a few steps as the man continued swinging, muttering curses under his breath.
— Go bother some other trash, you bum!
The door slammed shut behind the employee, leaving Tatsumi alone on the sidewalk once more.
He stood there in silence.
Slowly, he straightened his jacket.
Then he looked back down at the flyer still clenched in his hand.
The city lights reflected faintly off the wrinkled paper as his eyes drifted toward the address printed at the bottom. Small text. Easy to miss.
He stared at the flyer for a few more seconds.
Then he pulled out his phone.
With practiced speed, he typed out a message.
— Gonna be late tonight.
He hit send, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and took a step forward.
Ten seconds passed.
He stopped.
Clicking his tongue, Tatsumi pulled the phone out again.
Another message.
— I know exactly how many cans are in the fridge drawer. Half of them are mine.
Send.
Tatsumi slipped the flyer into his pocket, his hands following shortly after.
With a low exhale, he turned away from the restaurant and resumed walking, a destination quietly taking shape in the back of his mind.
'…Just looking won't hurt.'
...
From the outside, the building looked completely ordinary.
A mid-sized commercial complex wedged between others just like it, offices on the upper floors, a few shops at street level, lights still on behind glass windows. Nothing suspicious, just another structure blending into the city's nighttime routine.
During the day, people came and went without a second thought.
But tonight was different!
Because tonight, something special was happening underground.
Deep below the building, in the reinforced concrete of the sublevel parking garage, an event had taken over the space, one that thrived precisely because it was buried out of sight. Thick layers of earth and steel swallowed the noise, keeping it from reaching the streets above.
No complaints, no patrols, and most importantly, no heroes poking their noses where they didn't belong.
Down there, the air was alive.
The underground parking lot was a clash of light and shadow.
Fluorescent lamps lined the ceiling in uneven rows, some harsh and blinding, others flickering weakly, casting long, warped shadows across the concrete floor. Every pulse of light revealed sweat, movement, bodies packed too close together.
— Yo, move your ass.
— Hey! Watch where you going, lil' shitty.
Laughter burst out without restraint. Shouts overlapped. Somewhere in the crowd, a can cracked open with a sharp psh, foam spilling onto the ground as someone cheered for no real reason at all.
Music thumped from large speakers propped against a concrete pillar.
Boom- boom- boom
Raw rap beats echoed through the garage, bass vibrating through metal and concrete alike, rattling parked cars along the edges as if they were alive.
People weren't here for discipline or order.
Everyone had something in their hands.
Beer cans. Bottles. Plastic cups filled with something cheap and burning. Drinks were passed freely, arms brushing, bodies bumping into one another. The air was thick with alcohol, sweat, cigarette smoke, and something heavier, excitement with no direction.
— You remember last time?
— Hell yeah man, that night was insane.
— Shut up and drink!
Near one of the pillars, a small group leaned in close, clearly regulars, laughing loudly as they talked over the music, slapping each other on the back like this place belonged to them.
In a darker corner, a man and a woman were pressed against the wall, kissing shamelessly, hands roaming without any concern for who might be watching. Nearby, another pair laughed as they stumbled onto the hood of a parked car, the metal denting slightly under their weight.
Shirts were optional. Shame was nonexistent.
Men moved through the crowd bare-chested, skin gleaming under the flickering lights, drinks held high as they argued about nothing important. Others leaned lazily against columns, half-drunk, half-bored, eyes drifting between the music, the bodies, and whatever illegal thrill the night promised next.
Women wove through it all in tight, revealing clothes, hips swaying to the rhythm, laughing too loud, pulling friends along by the wrist. Someone climbed onto a car hood just to dance, the crowd whistling and cheering without missing a beat.
It wasn't about the fights.
The fights were just another excuse.
It was chaos. Loud, filthy, indulgent and very much alive.
— Yep, I'm definitely in the right place. — Tatsumi murmured to himself as he stepped into the mess without any kind of invitation.
But before he could take another step.
A hand pressed against his chest and shoved him back half a pace.
— Hold up.
Two men had moved in from the side like they'd been waiting for it.
Both were big. Broad shoulders. Dark skin. Loose white shirts hanging low, gold chains catching the flickering light. Their hair was locked in thick dreads, tied back just enough to keep their faces clear.
They had that kind of look that makes you understand they're tough guys. Tatsumi immediately recognized from experience and the situation that they are the "gatekeepers" of the party.
One of them leaned in close, eyes hard, scanning Tatsumi from head to toe with slow, deliberate judgment.
— You lost, man?
His voice was deep and flat, no drunken slur. This must mean they're professionals, since they didn't sneak away to join the fun; they should receive a handsome sum.
— This ain't a sightseeing spot.
The other stepped in from the side and nudged Tatsumi again, lazy in motion but firm in intent, like he was moving furniture that didn't belong there.
— Who you with? Who told you to come here? — he asked.
Tatsumi didn't flinch.
He straightened his posture calmly, hands loose at his sides, eyes steady. This type of interaction wasn't new to him.
— Nobody. I came alone. — he replied simply
That earned him a pause.
The first guard's jaw tightened slightly.
— Then you should turn around. Only invited people come in here. — he said.
— This place don't do walk-ins. — the other added, voice just as firm.
— You don't got a name, you don't got a reason, you don't got a problem with us. Simple.
The implication hung heavy in the air.
Tatsumi tilted his head a fraction, studying them.
— Funny. Doesn't look like anyone's checking names.
Silence.
— Last chance. — the first guard said, stepping closer, towering over him. — You turn around, you walk out, and this stays polite.
Tatsumi met his gaze without backing down.
— Let me ask you something first. You guys checking invitations… or you checking money?
The second guard scoffed quietly through his nose.
— You got jokes now?
— Nah, I got business. — Tatsumi answered.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled flyer, holding it up between them.
— I'm here for the event. So... where do I sign up?
The guards looked at the flyer.
Then at each other.
Before either of them could respond.
— Yo, yo, what's this?
A third guy stumbled in from the side, reeking of alcohol, pupils blown wide. He laughed for no reason, pointing at Tatsumi like he'd just spotted something hilarious.
— This kid think he got what it takes?
— Nah, nah, look at him. — He snorted.
— You ain't built for this, boy. Beat it before you get hurt.
He stepped closer.
— Go home. This place ain't-
His hand lifted casually.
A lazy slap, thrown without thought or reason.
But it never landed.
Tatsumi caught his wrist mid-motion.
The shift was instant.
He stepped in, fingers locking tight as his grip crushed down. He twisted the arm just enough, forcing the man's body to follow.
— Careful there, man. — Tatsumi said quietly, his voice dropping to match theirs. — You keep swinging like that, someone's gonna think you're offering it.
The pressure on his arm increases, not enough to break anything, but it will certainly leave a mark for a few hours.
—Yo- yo, wait- shit, my bad! — the man blurted out, panic cutting through the haze. —I'm sorry, man, I'm sorry!
Tatsumi leaned in close, smiling faintly.
— That's better.
He released the arm just as easily as he'd grabbed it.
Then, as if nothing had happened, Tatsumi laughed loudly and slung an arm around the guy's neck, pulling him into a loose, one-armed hug.
— Man, you're funny as hell. — he said, grinning wide. — Had me going for a second there.
The guy laughed nervously, nodding along way too fast.
— Y-yeah… yeah, just joking around, bro…
Tatsumi turned back to the two guards.
— So. — He lifted the flyer again. — About that sign-up.
The guards didn't answer right away.
They exchanged a look in silence, just a brief, glance.
One of them exhaled through his nose.
— …Come on.
He turned on his heel and started walking, cutting through the crowd without looking back, clearly expecting to be followed.
Tatsumi's lips curled into a crooked, satisfied grin.
He slipped his arm off the drunk guy's neck, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder as if they really were old buddies.
— Take care, man. — he said lightly.
Then he stepped forward and followed the guard, disappearing deeper into the underground chaos.