Fighting Chance 2

Brown eyes flickered open to nothing but dark, the only light at the end of the tunnel coming from directly above him; nothing but a rusty set of stairs and the opening he had basically jumped down to escape those criminals.

Zain blinked, once, twice, slow, brain lagging behind his body as he pulled in a breath, air thick with dust and something stale, like old sweat soaked into concrete. His tongue felt like it was covered in sandpaper.

“Jesus Christ.” The words scraped out rough, half cough, half groan. He swallowed, jaw clenching against the stiffness in his throat. “I’m alive.”

He was.

A little cold, a lot more sore but definitely still alive. 

His head thumped back against whatever he was laying on, eyes staring up at the ceiling of what had to be an abandoned subway tunnel.

That wasn’t right.

“…Why the hell am I in New York?”

That was the same thought that had hit him last night and rolled around in his head for a good half hour before his body finally gave up and passed out. Body aside, his brain was still piecing itself together, memory jumping out of order. Last thing I remember… He frowned. Last thing he remembered, he’d rolled out of bed, somehow in the last set of clothes he wore before heading to bed that same night. 

Or maybe he hadn’t. 

Maybe he’d never made it to bed at all.

His mouth twisted.

“I mean, I rolled out of it… but maybe I dreamed that?”

But if all of it was a dream, how the hell did he get here?

His frown fell aside as he allowed himself a snort. “Well… duh, I fell.”

That wasn’t funny. At least, it shouldn’t have been.

It didn’t stop him from laughing anyway. 

But that only raised more weirder questions. Like at least a dozen of them.

At least.

“Alright, things to deal with later,” he shook his head. “Let’s deal with the here and now. What do I know? What can I do? What can I fix?” It was a simple strategy, one he learned from watching his dad. Granted, his dad’s version usually involved a lot more yelling and probably high blood pressure, but Zain figured blood pressure was fine, as far as he knew.

He looked down at himself, doing a once-over as best he could in the barely-there lighting. His arms pushed himself up slow as he sat up straight further against the wall, muscles screaming their complaints, hoodie stiff with dried blood. 

Not his. 

Or—mostly not his.

His knuckles were raw, crusted red where the skin had split. His nails too, blood dried underneath them. His ribs ached. His face still felt swollen, but not as much as it should.

Yeah, especially considering I fell from the sky like Spider-Man, He frowned down at himself. Nothing broken, no bleeding. Not even that stiff.

None of this makes sense.

His stomach cut through that thought with a growl, loud and sharp, like his own body was trying to remind him of priorities.

His eyes flicked down to his hoodie, like maybe he could see through it, straight to his stomach.

That was weird.

Not the hunger. The lack of it.

He hadn’t eaten since—

His brain blanked.

Had he eaten? At all?

He should be starving. Should be in pain, should be exhausted, Should be feeling a lot of all three, considering what he got up to last night but all he felt was—

Fine.

Not normal. But fine.

Just… more weird shit to add to the list.

And yet, even with all of that stacking, all the impossible bullshit hanging over his head, his mind kept skipping back.

The Russians. The zip ties. The screams.

The blood.

His hands moving like they already knew what to do.

There’s… there’s no way I could have done all that. He knew that for a fact. Every kid liked to think they were an action hero but there was no way he actually could’ve pulled all that off barehanded. I only did like four months of kickboxing, they didn’t teach me that. Hell, even now, he should be shaking, crying, throwing up, feeling something.

Instead, he just… breathed.

The world hadn’t ended. He hadn’t died.

But even still—

The girls’ faces. The way they curled into themselves, the way they looked at him.

Zain sucked in a slow breath, tongue running over the metallic tang still sitting in his mouth.

They probably got taken anyway. Probably didn’t even make it out.

But maybe—maybe…

His teeth clenched. The decision settled into his bones before his brain even caught up. I can still try and get them help, right?

Right?

Zain climbed the ladder fast, hands stinging against cold metal, the ache in his arms burning like hell but not enough to slow him down. The second his head popped up past the top, light hit him like a slap.

Gray sky.

Cold air.

Noise.

New York stretched out in every direction, thick with bodies moving fast, cars packed tight, all of it loud, messy, too much. He braced against the sidewalk, blinking hard, mind scrambling to catch up before the city swallowed him whole.

For a second, just a second, he hesitated.

Then he yanked his hoodie up and walked.

Didn’t matter that his clothes were stiff with dried blood. Didn’t matter that his face was probably still swollen. He just kept his head down, moved through the crowd, tried to blend.

Except people were looking.

Yeah, makes sense. Ratty hoodie, dirty jeans, busted face—he looked like a problem.

Zain didn’t need a mirror to know he was throwing off bad energy.

Still, that wasn’t really his problem right now.

He needed cops.

He needed—

There.

It didn’t take long at all for him to find what he was looking for, his eyes widening slightly as they landed on it. An NYPD cruiser, parked near a stretch of green. 

His feet moved faster before his brain could start second-guessing.

“Yes,” he muttered under his breath, breath coming fast. A cop. Finally.

The officer leaned against the car, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. Big guy. Real big. Hell, he kinda looked like somebody tried to make a cop statue out of concrete and gave up halfway through. The dude had a chrome dome shining under his hat and a build like he wrestled people just for fun.

Zain slowed his pace, smile falling a little as he took the officer in..

Something about the guy—bored? The way he scrolled his phone, the way his face barely moved. Like he simply didn’t give a shit..

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then sucked in a breath and walked up.

“Yo, uh—Officer… uh,” Zain’s eyes flicked to the man’s badge, “Officer Williams?” He cleared his throat as he stood in front of the uniformed cop. “I—I saw something. Last night. Some dudes… Russian dudes, they had these girls, tied up. In a gym.”

The cop barely glanced at him.

“Yeah? That so? Real tragic. Now get lost.”

What? Zain blinked.

“What?” He echoed his thoughts, so confused he sounded off twice.

The cop didn’t even look up as he spoke. Zain frowned and decided to try again. “I’m serious, officer. It was in some old boxing place, near—”

“Kid,” the man rumbled. “You must have seen too many movies or something. I’m handling some business right now. So, I ain’t telling you again, beat it.”

Business? His stomach twisted. He knew it wasn’t gonna be like TV, where cops jump in their cars, sirens wailing, ready to save the day.

But still… like? The fuck? “Yo, I’m not playin’.” His voice sharpened, started picking up speed as his brain flashed back to last night. “They were traffickers, man! They had a whole setup—”

“—And I said get the fuck outta my face, kid.”

Zain clenched his jaw.

Yeah. He looked bad. He knew that. Short, scrappy kid in a busted hoodie, talking about crime rings like he was some undercover cop. But damn, the least this dude could do was act like he cared.

“Can you at least let me file a r—”

The look the cop gave him shut that down real quick. “You keep runnin’ your mouth, kid, I’ll book you for disturbing the peace.”

Zain stared back, half-confused, half-enraged. The girls were gone. Nobody was gonna do shit. His hands clenched, heat crawling up his arms, into his throat. His voice came out tight, jaw locked as he tried not to spit the words out. “…Yeah. Aight.”

He turned, only to stop a half-second later as his brain flicked through options. 

Landed on one.

“Hey,” he spun back to the officer, “Can I—can I at least use your phone?”

The cop raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

All he had to say was the actual truth. “I—I gotta call my mom.” 

That got a reaction.

Just not the one he wanted.

The cop scoffed. “Oh, that’s cute. You got lost? Poor baby.”

Heat hit Zain’s face. Fast. “I just need a phone, man—”

The cop sneered. “What, so your ‘mom’ can come get you? And what, she don’t got a number for you either?”

Zain’s lip curled. What the fuck is wrong with this dude?

“Do I look like I was born fuckin’ yesterday?” The cop shifted, voice dropping. “Get da fuck outta here before I bring you in for loitering, you lil’ shit.”

Zain stood there too long.

His fists tightened. Teeth clenched. His body wanted to swing. Bad. 

His knuckles ached for it. His gut twisted with it.

But that wouldn’t do shit. “Thanks for your help, officer.”

He turned.

Started walking.

Didn’t look back.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

A couple blocks of wandering later, with more people avoiding looking at him for some odd reason, his stomach growled again. Loud. Sharp. Annoying as hell.

He still didn’t feel hungry all that hungry. Not really. 

But his body was acting like it had beef with his insides, so whatever. Might as well.

Zain kept moving, hoodie up, slipping through the crowd like he belonged there. And that was the trick, wasn’t it? Look like you’re supposed to be here, and people won’t ask questions. New York wasn’t that different from Washington, DC there, only a lot bigger, and with a lot more people.

Rule One: Don’t look lost.

Rule Two: Move like you got somewhere to be.

The city moved around him like a mega-sized anthill, bodies rushing past, people too busy with their own problems to care or even look too closely at some short kid with a busted hoodie and dirty-ass white pants. But Zain was watching, though. 

And doing his best to notice. The way folks walked. Who they avoided. Where people went to spend cash.

He was learning fast.

Street vendors were busy. Fast movements, quick deals, hands always moving. Cash, change, napkins, food—transactions blurred together.

Some people were easy. Distracted, downright sloppy even. Some had eyes like hawks, already clocking every pocket in a three-foot radius.

His stomach twisted a little as he tried to . He wasn’t starving. Wasn’t gonna snatch a wallet.

But food?

He could make that work.

A cart sat at the corner, steam curling up from trays of pretzels, mustard-stained napkins littering the counter. The guy running it looked overworked, barely paying attention as he talked to some lady about her change.

Zain’s feet moved before his brain gave the order.

Quick. Clean. In. Out.

Fingers closed around a hot pretzel, yanked it smooth from the stack. He was already gone before the guy could turn his head.

Nobody noticed.

The rush hit first. That sharp, electric snap of getting away with it. Then the heat in his hands, fresh out the warmer, burning his fingers. He bit in fast, barely tasting it, tearing off chunks as he walked.

But even as he chewed, something else crawled under his skin.

His body felt too good.

Zain chewed slower. Thought back.

Ignoring the fall from the sky, he took a beating. Should be black and blue. Should be hurting.

But he wasn’t.

Barely even sore.

He ducked into an alley, found a busted, grime-streaked window, and checked his reflection.

Same wiry build. Same messy rat’s nest of curls. Same sharp brown eyes. Same dark skin.

But something felt off.

His fingers flexed. There. The tension coiled. Like a spring wound too tight.

The fight from last night flashed through his head.

The Russians. The zip ties. The blood.

His body knew exactly what to do.

And he won.

He shouldn’t have won.

He shouldn’t be alive.

The thought curled around his brain but before he could dig into it any further, the moment slipped away.

Zain kept walking. Didn’t matter where. Didn’t matter that the streets stretched long and unfamiliar, that the city felt too big, that he didn’t know a single damn person here.

That was future Zain’s problem.

Right now, he walked like he knew exactly where he was going.

But somebody noticed.

A group of teens slouched outside a bodega, all lazy postures and sharp eyes, just killing time.

One of them clocked him.

Something in the air shifted.

“Ayo, you lost?”

Rule one: Never look weak.

Zain didn’t look. Didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

“Motherfuck… Ayo, lil’ nigga, lemme get a dollar.”

His jaw tensed.

“Yo, I know you hear me, lil’ nigga!”

Something hit his back.

Cold. Sticky. Soaked straight through his hoodie, sharp and sudden as it splattered down to his shoes.

It’s in…Zain stopped, eye twitching. It’s in my fuckin’ socks, man.

A dented 7-Up can rolled past his sneakers. 

Alright, fine. He turned, hands out of his pockets. “You want somethin’?”

The group grinned, spreading out, their movements slow, and practiced, Yeah, these guys def do this all the damn time.

Zain clocked the shift fast. The way their shoulders loosened, the lazy confidence in their steps, the way they boxed him in like this wasn’t a question, just a process.

The biggest one cracked his knuckles, the sound oddly loud, as he took a step forward like this was already over. “Run your pockets, lil’ nigga.”

Zain let out a slow breath. This is the guy with the 7-Up. His heartbeat was already in his ears, his body tensed on instinct, muscles coiling, every part of him screaming to move before he even had time to think.

He thought about running. But they’d chase.

He thought about talking. But they wanted this.

Hell, he wanted this. His blood still burned from earlier after that fucking shit cop that didn’t even listen to him, barely even looked his way. Like he was nothing, like the shit he saw didn’t matter.

Zain wiped his hands down the front of his hoodie, like he was brushing off the soda, even though his fingers weren’t wet. Even though he was already balling them into fists.

A fight, then. A beatdown, at best. Worse, if he fumbled this.

One of them moved. A slight shift. 

Zain ducked.

The punch cut air where his head used to be. He twisted with it, stepped in fast, caught the kid’s balance before he could reset—

His fist drove deep into the ribs. Not just a hit. A blow. All his weight packed tight, shoulder turned, power focused into a single sharp point.

The guy folded. Just dropped, breath punched clean out of his lungs.

Zain’s body moved before his mind caught up, pivoting, weight already shifting, another fist swinging—

He hit the next one in the mouth. Felt teeth through his knuckles. Pain shot up his hand, sharp and bright, but he didn’t stop moving—

Another step back. Distance. His back to the street, no one behind him. Good.

The biggest one blinked at him, just a fraction of a second too long, before his face screwed up in anger. They didn’t expect that.

He saw the next one coming. A kick. Too obvious. Zain stepped aside, grabbed the leg, yanked—

The kid went down hard, skull bouncing against the pavement.

Two left.

One of them hesitated.

The other lunged.

Zain caught the swing on his forearm, impact rattling up the bone, but he was already twisting, momentum carrying his whole body into the counter—

A sharp, brutal elbow to the jaw.

The last one took off.

Zain stood there, breathing hard, his knuckles throbbing, adrenaline still clawing through his veins.

Zain stood there, breathing hard, adrenaline still clawing through his veins, his knuckles throbbing.

The kid he dropped first was still on hands and knees, wheezing. The biggest one clutched his face, stunned. The one he hit in the mouth spat blood onto the pavement.

Nobody said a word.

Zain took a step back. Then another.

Then turned and walked.

The way he had before.

It was over in seconds.

He won. Again.

And it felt… easy.

Hell, he felt stronger.

He flexed his hands into fists for a second before pulling a face. “…I really need to call mom.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

5k Words (100 DP)

ROLL: Trained Body (100 FP) [Reincarnator] {Refinement}: “You are a lucky one. Before being dragged here, your body was quite strong—roughly twice that of an average human—so naturally, this will translate well into your survival chances.

As such, you will begin the <Tutorial> with the equivalent of possessing 20 in all eight great stats, giving you a large head start compared to others in the <Tutorial>.”

Dojo Points: 0