The scent of rust and sweat clung to the air like a second skin.
Surya stepped into the basement of the complex, where flickering lights barely illuminated the stone walls soaked in old blood. The floor was damp, the echoes of distant cheers and groans thickening the air with tension. Ahead, a large cage had been assembled—more prison than ring—surrounded by a sea of hardened faces. Men with broken noses, stitched brows, and dead eyes leaned against metal bars, sizing up the newcomers.
A thick voice boomed from a metal platform overhead.
"Welcome to the last door between you… and the life you claim you want."
The speaker was a monster of a man—bald, covered in tattoos, with a nose that had clearly been broken too many times to count.
"The rules are simple. One-on-one. No weapons. You win? You move on. You lose? You crawl out, or get dragged. Some of you won't crawl. That's life."
He spat to the side and raised a battered clipboard.
"This is your recruitment. Your audition. Your blood trial."
Surya looked around. Dozens of other hopefuls stood with him—some twitching with nerves, others bouncing on the balls of their feet, eager for violence.
His jaw tightened.
This was the beginning. There was no room for fear now.
Round 1: The First Fall
Surya's name was called.
His opponent: a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running from temple to chin. The crowd jeered as the two stepped into the cage.
The bell rang—a rusty iron pipe slammed against the bars.
The scarred man lunged.
Surya barely dodged the first strike. A wild punch grazed his cheek. He staggered, then ducked under the next swing, his instincts screaming louder than reason. He wasn't a fighter—but he was a survivor.
The man grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the cage wall. Pain burst across Surya's back. The crowd roared.
"He's dead meat!"
But Surya's mind didn't snap—it focused.
His eyes flickered. A memory: his mother's hand, feeding him half a loaf of bread in the rain. Her smile. Her strength.
He twisted his body, elbowed his opponent's ribs, then drove his knee upward into the man's stomach. The brute faltered. Surya saw his chance.
With a roar that sounded more like grief than rage, he lunged, wrapped his arm around the man's neck, and wouldn't let go.
The man thrashed. Slammed Surya against the bars. Once. Twice.
But Surya held on, tighter.
Until the man dropped.
Unconscious.
The bell rang again.
Round 2: The Cost of Rage
Surya's knuckles were split, his ribs sore. But he stepped into the ring again, face bloodied but unbowed.
His next opponent: taller. Smarter. Trained.
The fight began fast. The man danced around him, landing clean jabs. Surya couldn't keep up. Every strike echoed through his bones. His shoulder screamed. His vision blurred.
Get up. Get up.
Another punch. Surya fell hard onto the concrete, gasping for breath.
He looked up—and saw his mother's body.
No. Not her. A memory. A nightmare.
But it fueled him.
He crawled forward and, with a burst of blind instinct, grabbed the man's leg. He twisted, pulled, bit—anything to win.
The crowd roared as he flipped the man onto the ground and mounted him.
Punch after punch after punch.
The referee slammed the bars.
"Enough! He's done!"
Surya didn't hear him.
It took two guards to pull him off.
His fists were shaking. Blood—his and his opponent's—dripped onto the concrete like a slow clock ticking away his innocence.
Surya sat slumped against a cold concrete wall, his knuckles bloodied and split. He could feel a rib shifting uncomfortably with every breath, but he didn't wince. The pain grounded him. Reminded him why he was here.
Beside him, Jey dropped down, passing a torn cloth he'd soaked from a leaking pipe overhead.
"Here. Wrap your hand," he said, his voice calm, almost too calm for a place like this.
Surya took it, nodding in thanks.
"You move like someone who's been fighting their whole life," Jey added.
"Not fighting," Surya replied quietly. "Surviving."
Jey leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly. "You're not like the others."
"Neither are you," Surya said, glancing at him. "Most of them look like they'd kill for a cigarette. You look like you'd kill for peace and quiet."
Jey smiled faintly. "I didn't come here to make friends. Didn't come here for blood, either. Just needed a place where I wouldn't be kicked to the gutter."
Surya wrapped his hand slowly, staring at the dried blood on his forearm.
"Same."
There was a pause between them. Not awkward—just... heavy.
Jey tilted his head toward Surya. "You got someone you're doing this for?"
Surya didn't answer at first. His jaw tightened.
"I had someone," he said finally. "She's gone. Just like everyone else."
Jey didn't press. He just nodded and looked down at his own fists.
"Funny. Everyone here fights like they want to live. You fight like you don't care if you die."
Surya met his eyes.
"That's because I don't."
Jey went silent.
A few seconds later, the announcer's voice echoed through the basement.
"Final round! Step up or get out!"
Jey stood slowly, offering his hand.
Surya looked at it. Took it.
"Good luck," Jey said.
"Same to you," Surya replied. "But stay out of my way when this is over."
Jey gave a half-smile. "Was just thinking the same thing."
They walked toward the ring—brothers in survival, if only for a moment.
The Final Round
Arun wasted no time. He charged, fists like hammers, swinging to end it quickly.
Surya ducked, moved, weaved. His body screamed with every motion, but he'd learned. He wasn't trying to fight like them anymore.
He was fighting smarter.
A feint. A duck. A knee to the gut. A boot to the shin. Surya moved like a storm in a glass jar—wild, unrelenting, desperate to break free.
Arun caught him with a punch that nearly spun him into darkness—but Surya stayed upright.
Then, in a final blur of motion, Surya slammed his elbow into Arun's throat, kicked his knee out, and brought the brute crashing down.
The announcer didn't speak. The crowd didn't cheer.
Silence.
Then—laughter. A slow clap.
"That's five," the announcer said. "The rest of you—welcome to the family."
Surya turned to look at the others. Jey who already won his match gave him a nod.
Surya didn't smile.
Later that night, in the back chamber, all five were given knives and told to carve the mark into their shoulders.
Jey winced as he cut. The others cursed. One fainted.
Surya did it without a word.
His thoughts weren't in that room. They were on a name, a scar, a promise.
Ryan, Michael. Two more remain.
The pain was nothing.
The war had only just begun.