Fighting Chance 5

The trap smelled like stale blunt smoke, sweat, and bad decisions.

It wasn’t a big spot—just a run-down brownstone, sitting on the edge of the block like a missing tooth in a half-rotten smile. Boarded-up windows, eviction notices stuck to the door like faded tattoos, rats bold enough to run across the front stoop in broad daylight. 

Outside, it looked abandoned. Inside? Business was running like always.

Twenty-some Crips, all early twenties, all posted up. Some on the couch, eyes glued to a muted TV playing a DVD of “Friday.” Others posted near the kitchen table, breaking down weed and stuffing it into dime bags, making small talk about a dice game from last night and who owed who money.

Smack in the middle of it all? Smiley.

Big dude. Muscles packed thick under a white tank top, gold in his mouth, tattoos crawling up his arms. He sat in a folding chair, rolling a blunt with slow, surgical precision, licking the edge of the wrap like he was sealing a contract. His baby moms had been blowing up his phone for an hour now, but the thing stayed face down on the table, vibrating next to a half-empty bottle of Henny.

“Shit, ain’t my fault her moms can’t watch the baby,” he muttered, tapping loose weed into the blunt before rolling it between his fingers.

Twin—real name Antoine, but nobody called him that— leaned up against the stair railing, hoodie half-off his shoulders, a fresh blunt tucked behind his ear. He was fresh out the shower, hoodie loose over his shoulders, a blunt tucked behind his ear.

“Yo,” one of the homies, Duke, called from the couch, a blunt hanging off his lip. “Who slid through last night? N***as was talkin’ like we had bitches on rotation.”

“Na, you know damn well the only rotation goin’ was them damn dice,” Shorty laughed, stuffing a bag into his pocket. “Ain’t no hoes show up, bruh. You know these bitches ain’t tryna be in the spot when them real nas outside.”

Smiley shook his head, flicking the lighter against his blunt. “Y’all stay tryna act like we broke.”

Twin snorted, finally pushing himself up off the railing. “Man, y’all can hold that convo. I’m finna hit the upstairs, light this real quick.”

Nobody stopped him. 

Twin liked to smoke alone.

The stairs creaked under his weight as he moved up, two steps at a time. Second floor was empty like usual—just a row of dusty-ass rooms, furniture old and busted, stained mattresses thrown in the corners where no one wanted to know what happened on ‘em. The homies only came up here to crash for the night or bring a bitch through on some sneaky shit.

Twin moved toward the last room at the end of the hall, already reaching for the blunt behind his ear, when—

A noise.

Faint rustling coming from one of the rooms.

Twin froze, his gut telling him something was fucking wrong. “The fuck…” Everybody was still downstairs and nobody else came through all fucking day. .

He wasn’t paranoid or nothin’, but his instincts? Never lied. Somebody in there…

His hand slid toward his waistband out of habit as he stepped closer, slow.

He gripped the knob, twisted, and swung the door open.

And there, standing dead in the middle of the room—

Yo, a kid? It was a kid, though, even that made no damn sense. Who the fuck let this lil nigga in here? Black hoodie. Blue bandana tied over his face, as he stuffed all the cash and clothes around him into a duffel bag. 

The kid looked up, eyes going wide above the bandana.

For a second, both of them just stared at each other.

Twin blinked. “Ayo, what the fuck?”

The kid’s eyes went wide. “Ah, shit.”

Twin went for his piece—

Didn’t even get the chance.

Something flew across the room.

Fast as fuck.

POP.

A thick cloud of white powder exploded in his face.

Everything burned.

His nose. His eyes. His throat.

His vision went white.

Twin stumbled back, choking, hands flying to his face, rubbing, wiping, cursing.

“What the—MOTHERFUCK—”COUGH COUGH“—WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!”

Baby powder.

Fucking baby powder.

The realization barely hit before—

Hands yanked his hoodie over his head.

His body jerked forward, balance lost—

CRACK.

A fist slammed into his jaw.

Pain exploded through his skull.

His body went limp.

His knees buckled.

And then—blackness.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

This hallway is too damn long.

Zain’s breath came fast, sweat sticking his hoodie to his back as he sprinted, sneakers slamming against the hardwood, every step echoing through the narrow corridor. He had one goal—the window at the end of the hall.

If he got there, he was home free. If not? Well. He really didn’t wanna think about that.

Behind him?

A lot of pissed-off Crips.

It had taken a while for Zain to realize that mugging muggers was like fishing, but robbing gang dealers? That was wild game hunting.

Bigger hauls. More danger.

At first, it was just him tracking down the usual lowlives—muggers, corner dealers, two-bit gangbangers. Then he started getting bolder. Bigger targets. Pimps. Drug houses. Real criminals. And stash spots like this one?

This was the jackpot.

Except now? He was running for his life.

The hallway wasn’t empty anymore.

Boots thundered behind him, voices shouting, someone close enough to reach—

Zain ducked.

Just in time too.

A thick forearm swung over his head, trying to clothesline him. He twisted mid-stride, shoulder-checking the guy’s ribs as he dodged. The man staggered, hitting the wall, but another one was already coming.

Zain dropped low.

Felt the wind of a punch pass over his head.

Shot up—elbow straight into a guy’s gut.

The man choked, doubling over.

Another one tried to grab his hoodie from behind—

Zain twisted, foot slamming into a knee, dropping the guy like a bad habit.

They were fumbling—too many, too crowded, too confused about why a thirteen-year-old was hitting back this hard.

They weren’t expecting speed. They weren’t expecting someone smaller than them to hit like a full-grown man.

And they weren’t ready.

“THERE HE GO! GET THAT LIL’ BITCH!”

A body slammed into him.

Zain barely had time to brace before he was shoved sideways, his back crashing into the wall. A fist came next—Zain ducked, the punch burying itself in old drywall instead of his skull. The guy’s hand sank deep, arm stuck for half a second—Zain didn’t waste it.

He swung his elbow, full force.

CRACK.

“FUCK!” The dude howled, staggering back, clutching his ribs, but another was already grabbing Zain by the hoodie, yanking him back toward the pack.

“Ayo, pin that lil’ nigga down!”

Someone grabbed him by the shoulder.

Zain ripped forward, twisting—right into a punch. His vision flashed white as the hit rocked him, jaw snapping sideways. His feet stumbled, body tilting. 

“KILL HIS LIL’ ASS, MAN! FUCK HE THINK HE IS?!”

A boot drove into his gut.

His breath vanished.

Somebody caught his arm, tried to pin him.

Zain bit him.

Like, full-on bit into the guy’s forearm.

The gangster screamed.

Zain ripped free and kept moving.

And then—

His foot hit something.

A rusted metal pipe on the floor.

He grabbed it without thinking.

Somebody rushed him.

Zain swung.

The pipe hit hard, slamming against a knee, bone cracking.

The guy screamed, dropping.

Zain twirled the pipe in his hands—too long, but heavy. Good enough.

A fist came at him—he blocked with the pipe.

Another dude lunged—Zain drove the end of the pipe into his gut.

More.

They kept coming.

A hand grabbed his hoodie—he spun, swinging, the pipe slamming against ribs.

A boot nearly caught him in the side—he twisted just in time, bringing the pipe down on the guy’s shin.

Someone tried to tackle him from the side—he jammed the pipe up, straight into a throat.

Space was tight, barely wide enough for two people to pass shoulder to shoulder. That worked for them. And also for him too.

Zain sprinted, pipe clenched tight in one hand, holding onto the duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, ribs already aching from the last hit he took. The window was close. He just had to—

A shoulder caught him in the chest, driving the air from his lungs. Zain’s spine hit the wall so hard his teeth clacked together, slicing his tongue. Blood filled his mouth as a meaty fist flew at his face. He jerked his head sideways—too slow. The punch glanced off his temple, vision going spotty, legs wobbling. The guy pulled back for another shot, telegraphing it wide. Zain’s fingers tightened around the pipe, muscles moving on instinct. He swung low, not even aiming.

CRACK.

The pipe connected with something—knee, shin, he couldn’t tell—but it bought him half a second. Half a second where he could breathe through the pain. Half a second where black spots weren’t swimming through his vision.

“OHHH SHIT! TWIN DOWN!”

Zain stepped in close before the next guy could make a move, too close for a proper punch—drove his knee up, straight into the dude’s groin.

“AHHHHHHHHH! THIS NIGGA KICKED MY DICK!”

Before the next hit landed, Zain kicked off the wall.

Straight up.

His foot planted hard against the drywall, using the angle to twist himself midair, breaking the grip on his wrist. He dropped into a crouch, pipe swinging in a tight arc—

Metal met knee.

A scream. A body crumpling.

Another lunged at him—Zain threw his shoulder into their gut, forcing them back into the crowd.

Too many. Still too many.

It was messy. Ugly.

He was fighting like a cornered animal, wild, instinctive, desperate.

But he was still outnumbered.

His right eye was already half-swollen shut, Zain barely able to see out of it, and something warm trickled from his ear down his neck. Mom not teach to trim your nails, man? Two fingers on his left hand wouldn’t straighten right anymore. 

But he could ignore that.

For now.

Pain was just noise. Background static. 

He’d been hurt worse and most of that was self-inflicted too. A couple nights of crashing somewhere and he’d be good to go again.

The corner of his vision caught movement—he pivoted a half-second too slow. A boot slammed hard into the side of his stomach, sending him half-flying. His legs buckled and his vision went white as something inside him screamed from that hit. He caught himself against the wall, leaving a bloody handprint. Someone grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back for a clean shot to the face.

Zain responded the only way he knew how—he spat blood and teeth directly into the guy’s eyes.

The grip loosened just enough for him to kick back and away only for him to falter as a punch slammed into his ribs—Zain grunted, nearly dropping the pipe.

Another hit—his head snapped to the side, pain sparking through his skull.

His legs buckled—he caught himself against the wall, shaking it off, but they were closing in.

The hallway was his enemy. Too narrow to dodge freely. Too tight to swing properly. Every move was like fighting in a coffin, boxed in by bodies bigger and heavier than his.

Zain wasn’t a trained fighter. No technique. No real skill.

But he was faster. He was stronger.

And he fought mean.

Someone swung a bat at his head—Zain ducked low, shot forward, ramming his shoulder into the guy’s ribs like a bullet. The dude hit the wall with a grunt, but a fist caught Zain’s ear, knocking him sideways, rattling his skull like dice in a cup.

Fuck—he was getting hit too much.

“Lil’ nigga wanna play tough—BREAK HIS SHIT!””

Another hand snagged his hoodie—he twisted as the ratty thing tore, let the damaged cloth pull away from his skin, ditching it entirely.

Bare skin now, bag weighing him down, sweat slicking his arms, pain tight in his ribs.

The window was still too far.

And these guys? Still standing.

Another came from the side—Zain pivoted, foot whipping into their shin.

Another.

This one had a knife.

Zain barely had time to think.

The blade came fast, a flash of silver in the dim hallway. Zain jerked back, the tip slicing through the air where his gut had been.

His elbow snapped forward, hard and fast, cracking against the guy’s wrist. The knife clattered to the floor.

Zain kicked it away and dove for the pipe, scrambling back to his feet with it in his grip.

Just in time.

Another guy was already on him.

A fist to his side.

Pain flared sharp.

Another grabbed his shoulder, pinning him in place.

Zain whipped the pipe backward.

It smashed into someone’s jaw, a wet, ugly CRUNCH.

The guy dropped, twitching.

Zain was breathing hard now, ribs throbbing, body burning from exhaustion. He could feel bruises forming. He wasn’t sure there was a spot in his mouth that he couldn’t taste blood in, being real.

He wasn’t dizzy, but that didn’t mean much when he couldn’t see all that straight either. Fuck…

The window. The window.

He was close.

But they were too damn close too.

They didn’t have to beat him, Zain knew that. All they had to do was hold him long enough for someone to pull a gun. Not fucking happening. He could take a hit, sure, but he wasn’t bulletproof.

Zain took one last, wild swing with the pipe—sent a guy crashing into another guy—then bolted.

Full sprint.

“I SAID GRAB THAT LIL’ BITCH!”

Someone snagged his sleeve—he tore free.

The window was right there.

One step. Two. Three—

He jumped.

Glass exploded around him as his body shot through the empty frame.

Then—

Air.

The alley rushed up to meet him, wind howling past his ears.

Too fast. Too high.

He braced—

CRASH.

Zain hit the ground hard, rolling over his shoulder, momentum carrying him forward.

He stumbled up, breath ragged, body aching, but he was moving.

Didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.

His legs burned, his pulse pounded, but he was alive.

Again.

He was halfway down the alley when he grinned, breathless.

“Heh,” he muttered.

Then, louder, yelling back over his shoulder—

“Try and call the cops on me!”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Cornered Animal: Defeat 5 enemies while outnumbered (100 DP)

• Roll 6 (Success)

Can Do This All Day: Continue fighting despite sustaining significant injuries (100 DP)

• Roll 5 (Success)

Defenestration: Make a dramatic escape through a window (50 DP)

• Roll 3 (Success)

ROLL: Positive Jing (100 FP) [Avatar – Rise of Kyoshi] {Refinement}: “The ability to overwhelm others with strength and direct force, attack. Very common to the Fire Nation. Your attacks and blows seem to strike noticeably harder (around twenty to thirty percent more powerful, if you need a hard number) and are particularly effective when forcing people back or breaking through blocks and other defenses.”

ROLL: Kei Conservation (100 FP) [Chrome Shelled Regios] {Source}: “You have learned how to make do with less. You require 25% less energy for all techniques; this is increased to 50% for techniques that require constant energy use.”

ROLL: Survival Instincts (100 FP) [Reincarnator] {Refinement}: “With this perk, your most basic instincts are boosted. In situations of fight or flight, you will react instead of hesitating.

When fighting, it increases your instinct to predict when or where an opponent will attack, allowing you to guard and counter if you’re able. When running, it instinctively guides you on the right time to disengage and escape. This doesn’t make you stronger—just more likely to survive if you don’t logically understand the level of danger you’re facing.”

Dojo Points: 50