Fighting Chance 6

Old heads were always pressed about something.

Like—relax. It’s just mahjong.

Okay, fine, maybe people in their thirties weren’t that old, but if you were hitting up the same buffet twice a week to slap plastic tiles around a table like it was life or death? 

You were cooked. Straight fossils.

Which is exactly why Zain kept eating at the Golden Dragon. Seven ninety-nine all-you-can-eat, heat and rice included, and the owner stopped side-eyeing him after the third plate and two fake phone calls.

It wasn’t just the food.

It was the pattern.

Routine made people sloppy. Predictable.

And the guy Zain’d been tracking—gold chain, iced-out G-shock, real smug mouth—had been telling on himself since day one. Condo flex. Eight floor. East-facing balcony with a view, and more importantly? A weekly ass-whooping at the downtown mahjong league that kept him gone until eight sharp. Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Zain clocked it.

And now?

Now he was gonna take everything that dude had.

Not ‘cause he needed it.

Okay, yeah, he needed it.

But also because screw rich assholes and their stupid condos.

In the past two weeks, he’d jacked three wallets, a phone, broke some dickhead’s wrist on reflex when he got too close—just enough to eat and crash somewhere better than that cold-ass squat with no lights, no heat, and a ceiling that coughed dust every time the wind hit wrong.

This? This was different. Big score. One and done. Maybe even enough to fake some documents, get an actual lease somewhere, stop hiding every time he heard sirens.

Tonight? He was moving up. Eight floors up.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

He already scoped the place. Duh.

He wasn’t an idiot. He might have been thirteen but he wasn’t some random street kid. His dad had always told him to plan ahead, and granted, he might have meant for like tests and general life and not a cat burglary, but it still applied.

Right?

Anyway, he had ollowed the dude in his Mercedez-Benz (he had rolled his eyes when he saw the car, because of course…) out to Queens for the first time weeks ago, on foot from Chinatown, which was a bitch and a half. Then he’d parked himself on top of the building across the street like Batman’s broke little cousin and just watched the guy. 

Noticed the guy’s routine, what window he lit up when he got home. 

Where the cameras outside pointed. 

Where they didn’t.

He had done that multiple times since, every Tuesday and Thursday during mahjong night, scurrying up the fire escape and ducking low as he scoped out the target building.

He knew better than to be seen.

Especially looking like he did.

Especially in Queens.

‘Cause you know damn well if people see some skinny homeless-looking Black kid hanging out near a rooftop, they’re not thinking “wow, what a tragic backstory.” They’re thinking burglary.

Or worse.

Which—okay, yeah. They’d be right.

But they shouldn’t get to assume that. Innocent without being proven guilty… although that was for a court of law, and not public opinion, from what he remembered from his cousin’s civil law textbooks. Is robbing criminals really a crime? Especially if the money was gotten illegally?

He frowned as he pulled himself up the building properly, another window ledge the only thing keeping him from a hard fall and a half-dozen broken bones at least. He shook his head, pushing that thought to the side. 

That was a complication for later.

Now, though, it was heist time.

“Okay, not… so… easy.”

Zain’s fingers curled tight around the edge of the balcony railing as the wind hit again, cold enough to slice, sharp enough to make his eyes water. Eighth floor wasn’t exactly skyscraper high, but when you’re hanging off the side of a concrete wall with just your grip and a pissed-off attitude keeping you up? It felt infinite.

His shoes scraped once—too loud, too slick—and his left foot skidded off the ledge for half a second. Long enough to panic. Short enough to catch.

He hissed through his teeth. “Okay, who the hell climbs condos in the dark?”

Answer: Apparently, he did.

The cold was biting into his fingers. The glass kept fogging whenever he exhaled. And his hoodie—already thinned out from weeks of wear—was doing exactly nothing against the wind trying to slap him off the building. How the hell do cat burglars do this? 

He frowned to himself again, blinking slowly. “I mean, I guess they got… like, tools and such.”

His legs were shaking. Not fear. Not really.

Okay—maybe a little.

But mostly cold. Definitely cold.

Right?

Zain didn’t exactly plan for this to go wrong.

Not really.

As much as you could plan anything like this, being real.

He’d scoped the place, done his homework, watched that fancy-ass Triad dude head out twice a week for his little old-man mahjong nights like clockwork.

He would get home, get up to the Eight floor. East-facing room window. That same window cracked open every time like he thought the breeze was his friend.

The climb… Well, the climb sucked.

Balls, too. Not just dick.

His hoodie was soaked through, his fingers almost raw to the bone even throught the gloves he got special for this, and the wind didn’t care that he was a hundred feet off the ground with nothing but grip strength and beef with gravity holding him up. “Nah, this is stupid,” he muttered, voice scraping out between clenched teeth as his foot skidded on some wet patch of concrete. “This is dumb. I don’t even like heights, bruh.”

He hauled himself up to what he had to assume was the eighth floor window. This is the eighth, right? It was hard to be sure, cause the sun had set a while back and it wasn’t like windows were labeled and it was hard to keep track when he was jumping and scaling and hoping against hope nobody saw him in the dark. Zain glanced down, hoping to see if he could count the individual windows from where he was—

Jesus fuck!

His heart dropped into his stomach as he gripped tighter to the wall, chest heaving as the wind slapped him like it had beef. The ledge was slick enough but it wasn’t the slipperiness that had his chest pounding. Okay, maybe I’m more scared of heights than I thought, he thought with a slow breath. Just don’t look down, bruh. He shook his head and focused on the window, the thing barely cracked like he expected.

Just enough for a breeze and just enough for a break-in. He pushed the fear away and let a grin slide over his face.

One hand came up and with effort and grace that would probably get him recruited somewhere for some sport, Zain pushed the window up high. Perfect. With enough space for his body and everything he carried, the young teenager slipped in easy.

Quiet.

Just like he’d imagined.

Then he saw the room.

“Daaamn,” Zain breathed, letting the duffel bag on his shoulder thump against the floor. Freshly painted white wall, gleaming black hardwood, black silk bedsheets and black furniture all over the room, so sharp that just the dresser and mirror combo looked like it had to cost more than he had ever managed to snatch off muggers in his month-and-a-half on the streets.

More than anything, this was a “money lives here” view. “Man, crime does pay, what are they saying?” Hell, he already knew that. Even as a kid, he thought The Kingpin and Lex Luthor were some of the coolest characters in comics. Maybe being bald just makes money come to you quicker or something.

But enough of that…

Ratty duffel bag in hand again, he moved fast. The drawers opened, one by one, treasure found in almost each one. Wads of cash and loose crumpled bills, nothing below a twenty all packed away. He pulled open more drawers and found watches rotating in a set-up that just looked plain sick. And next to them, a full stack of cash taped together. “Oooh,” he let out the manliest giggle a thirteen year old boy could as he fanned himself with it for a second, a sfake Southern accent slipping out, “I do declare, these humid New York nights certainly give me the vapors.”

What were the vapors? He had no idea but he was having too much fun playing with money to care.

Bedside drawer came open, and his eyes glittered as he opened a bunch of ring boxes. Those went in the duffel, rings only and boxes tossed. A stupid heavy gold chain, too, along with a bunch of silver ones. All dumped into the ratty duffel like he was hitting a jackpot at a rigged arcade. “That’s rent. That’s utilities. That’s—bro,” his eyes widened at the sight of a thick diamond-studded gold timepiece, “what even is this watch?”

God, I love criminals. He opened the closet after checking through everything else, the white wooden doors sliding apart as he wore a wide grin, the diamond watch now on his wrist. A half-second later, he froze there as the smile vanished.

Another half-second passed and his jaw fell.

A sneaker wall, floor to ceiling. Jordans, Nike Air Maxes, Lebrons, Air Yeezies, and Foamposites stacked like a damn Foot Locker shrine. He’s… he’s a… He swallowed the spit in his dry throat like it would dislodge the thought, a sneakerhead.

“God… I love criminals.”

Zain stepped forward like he was approaching an altar and immediately grabbed one like a shoe Gollum, already hunched over a pair as he kicked off his own ratty and dirty white Adidas, eyes wide with the words My Precious seconds from slipping out. “Size nine? Bet. Bet.” He slipped one foot in a pair of icy blue 1s and the grin that split his face was almost evil. “Immaculate. I’m walkin’ outta here lookin’ clean.”

Figuratively, at least.

As you’d expect from a kid living on the street, he hadn’t had a shower in a couple days. Maybe three days ago, actually. No, two. Yeah, it was two. Tuesday before his usual stakeout he had showered at the rec center in the Bronx before going to eat at the buffet.

Still, figuratively or literally, with all this money, he was gonna be clean as hell. Tossing a few shoes into his duffel meant it was full a few seconds later, more full than he would’ve liked honestly.

I guess it’s time to dip.

But then—“Might as well see what this man got in the fridge.”

He wandered into the kitchen with the duffel on his shoulder, swag making his legs loose and straight high off the haul. The fridge opened with a pop.

And for the second time in as many minutes, his jaw fell.

Only this time, it wasn’t for a good reason. Egg rolls… a couple cans of Sprite, and a fancy glass bottle of soy sauce. He blinked. Okay…

Zain let out a snort, shaking his head at the same time. “Bruh, how you got a fifty-K watch collection and this weak-ass fridge? That’s tragic.” He grabbed the food, drink, and sauce, almost without thinking, still in hunt and scavenge mode.

He turned back, walking toward the room like he owned the place—

—and froze.

Someone was slumped over the couch, the couch facing the balcony, someone in a full suit, unmoving and completely silent.

Zain’s whole body locked up as his thoughts went a mile a minute. Dead? No. Snores. Soft ones, almost unnoticeable, but still.

Fuuuuuuck me. He pivoted slow, breath caught in his throat as he barely moved. Little by little, he began inching back toward the hallway, tiptoeing like a cartoon character.

Click.

His eye twitched as he heard a noise from behind him that could only be the fuckin’ front door.

Then the sounds of what had to be the key turning fully hit his ears and Zain stopped breathing. How the hell is mahjong over already? Every time for the past two weeks, it had gone over two hours.

Finaly, the door opened and Zain felt his heart stop as something filled the doorway.

No.

Someone.

Tall.

Fuck that, massive. A literal wall of man, a whole damn fridge on legs with casual Cantonese pouring out his mouth like this was any other Thursday, only the word “Chen!” standing out in his ears.

Zain didn’t move. Hell, he couldn’t. Mahjong dude has roommates?

Traphouse gangsters were one thing, but giants that could use his skull like a pool ball were a whole different, even more scary, thing. Why does the triad have roided up Yao Ming working for them? The giant didn’t even clock him at first, to his relief.

Instead, the man walked into the kitchen and Zain breathed out a barely audible sigh of relief as he heard the fridge open.

Then the couch guy sat up. “Keung?”

The relief didn’t last long.

Eyes locked.

Confusion first, that was all Zain could see on the other man’s face, clear confusion the way someone has when they just wake up and think they’re still dreaming.

Then dawning awareness, and a full-second later, anger.

Zain’s lips twitched. “Wrong apartment?”

The guy on the couch moved way too fast for somebody who’d been sleeping like the dead a second ago.

Face still half-crushed from nap mode, the guy swung one leg over as the couch creaked under him, suit wrinkling as he was clearly about to launch himself across the living room like some well-dressed ninja.

Nah. Zain didn’t even think.

The Sprite bottle left his hand, chucked full force, full wrist like an angry Tom Brady.

THUNK. The can cracked against the guy’s cheek and popped on impact, hissing soda everywhere, and right into the guy’s eyes. The couch ninja screamed like he got maced and flopped back with a wet grunt, one arm flailing and the other cradling his face.

Zain barely had time to celebrate.

Kitchen guy roared something in Cantonese, full-volume — meaning deep and pissed — and already stomping into view with all his Fee Fi Fo Fum feet.

Zain spun, refusing any higher thought before he could stop himself as he yanked the glass bottle of soy sauce from under his arm. The soy sauce bottle was in his hand.

Then it was airborne.

No aim, just panic.

It cracked off the big guy’s forehead and shattered like a bomb—glass, dark sauce, probably a hundred bucks of silk shirt all ruined in one go. Big man staggered, cursing hard in his language, and Zain—feeling way too proud of himself—followed it up with the egg rolls in a classic combo. They didn’t do shit, but hey, points for commitment.

“Okay! Okay! We are done with snacks—” He dropped the duffel just in time to duck the guy charging again.

Chen—suit guy, definitely Chen—rushed forward, dripping soda, suit wrecked, a massive lump forming on the side of his face, and somehow still looking like a threat all at the same time. Chen moved clean. Tight. All elbows and angles as he dropped into some kinda stance Zain didn’t even know how to describe, but it screamed I actually do martial arts.

That was a problem.

Zain blinked, doubting himself for half a second. The last guys he saw that new martial arts and were also Asian did a murder in an alleye right in front of him and moved like demons, so could you blame him? “Yo, are you serious right now? Kung fu? Bro, that’s… like I don’t know any martial arts, like,” Technically, that was a lie if you counted a little bit of kickboxing he begged his mom for lessons in, “—man, that’s cheati-”

He lunged anyway, his words confusing the soda-can man long enough for Zain to act on impulse as he dropped low, body coiling tight like a spring, footwork sloppy but fast. Muscle memory over thought, and sneaker squealing against the hardwood, he drove a punch straight into dude’s ribs—hard.

Like, something popped under his fist hard. The guy flinched, exhaled a grunt— He felt it, he had to, from the way Zain heard the breath whoosh out of his lungs, it had to hurt

—but Chen twisted through it, calm like he’d trained through worse.

Zain saw the sweep half a beat late, the counter coming like it’d been rehearsed half a dozen times. A foot hooked behind his ankle and his weyes widened as he felt the pull. The floor flipped.

SMACK! His back cracked the hardwood, air gone from his lungs and brain feeling like static as his spine lit up with pain. Fu-!

Then Chen was on him with a sharp elbow in a surgical strike. Zain caught the first with his forearm just in time—half-blocked, half-lucky as he kept it from impacting his face—and it still felt like catching a cinder block with his wrist. Pain lanced right up his forearm.

Fuuucck!

Running on raw instinct, he jerked up and slammed his forehead—crack. Something wet broke right above his brow. Couch guy reeled, hands flying to his face.

Blood? Hopefully. Definitely. Probably.

Zain didn’t wait to verify.

He buckled his core, flipped his legs up, locked them around the guy’s waist and yanked—real sloppy WWE move, but it worked. Kinda. Sure, he flipped the guy over, but Chen was clearly no rookie.

He took Zain with him, sending the both of them tumbling across the floor like idiots. Zain, lighter and smaller, flipped with the momentum, but no control and he felt himself fly as Chen reversed his throw.

Launched across the table like a bored toddler’s Happy Meal toy, Zain crashed hard into a coffee table. It exploded on impact—legs snapped, the top split, cheap-ass wood flying, probably the cheapest thing in this whole condo, honestly.

“Okay, so kung fu’s real, noted,” he gasped through pained lungs, rolling out the way as the guy tried to stomp his ribs through the floor.

He rolled again, splinters stabbing into his hoodie. A fist smashed where his head had just been.

“Big deal! I watch Jackie Chan movies!”

Which is when the big guy got up.

Zain turned just in time to see soy-sauce-and-glass-covered mountain-man rising like a horror movie final boss. Dude’s face was all cut up and bloody with bits of thick glass stuck to it, chest and clothes slick with sauce, eyes locked dead on him.

Stil massive.

Still mad.

Zain’s brain flatlined. “Oh no.”

The roar was deep. Like, chest-thudding deep. The dude charged, and Zain—being smart, nimble, and not stupid—jumped back.

It didn’t really do much.

A giant fist tore through the coffee table like it was cardboard sending even more splinters everywhere as Zain covered his face with both hands.

Then—hands on his hoodie. The ground vanished from right under his feet where things felt right and he suddenly had no interest in ever flying.

His feet kicked, feet above the ground as he shouted at the top of his lungs, feeling at least half his age all of a sudden. “HEY! PUT ME DOWN! THAT’S CHILD ABUSE!”

Unsurprisingly, that didn’t work.

He flailed harder and punched up, right into the guy’s throat. For all his effort, he got a grunt, and not much else.

Then the giant threw him, a full-body toss with full-bodied force.

Zain felt the crash before he heard it, glass and wood giving way and stabbing into the back of his hoodie as another piece of furniture gave way beneath him in a bone-jarring impact. For a second, it almost felt like his soul was jarred right out of him too.

Artifacts tumbled. Old blades. Weird masks. Decorative crap.

Zain blinked, barely able to catch his breath as he tried to ignore his cut up hands and screaming spine.

His eyes fell on something right by his hand, something that wasn’t just decorative crap.

A chain.

Normal metal, coiled like a snake. Almost vibrating the longer he looked at it. Wha- Zain realized he had felt it before he saw it, felt it the second he had hit the display cabinet. Like his body’s whole gravity had tilted him toward it.

Buzzing. Pulling.

Cornered, bleeding, every breath feeling like a fight and pretty much out of options as Chen and Yao Muscles moved towards him, he reached.

“Fuck—”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Whimpering Heights: Did you forget you’re scared of falling? (50 DP)

5K Words (100 FP)

FAIL: The Strength of the Weak  (600 DP) – Cradle V1

ROLL: Chain of a Thousand Miles (200 CP) [Jujutsu Kaisen] {Treasure}: “A special grade cursed tool in the form of a metal chain with a clip at one end. So long as the end without the clip remains hidden from anyone’s view, the chain can keep extending with no known limit, though it can also be shortened by retracting the chain as well.

While it can be used as a weapon by itself, the clip allows for other objects, including cursed tools, to be very easily attached to it, greatly extending their range.”