Chapter 3: A Taste of Power

Taro had spent the past five years avoiding people like Ivan Karpov. He had learned early that trusting the wrong person could get you killed, but as he stared at the crumpled bill in his hand, he felt something different.

Power.

It was the first time in his life that someone had offered him more than just scraps.

By the time midnight rolled around, he was already outside the old boxing gym. The place was worn down, its once-bright neon sign now flickering weakly. The streets were nearly empty, the distant rumble of a train the only sound cutting through the cold night air.

Taro adjusted his hoodie and stepped inside.

The gym smelled like sweat and blood. The walls were covered in faded posters of fighters long past their prime. A single dim light flickered above the ring in the center, where two men were sparring. A small crowd of rough-looking men stood around, some watching, some talking in low voices.

At the back of the room, sitting on a worn-out leather couch, was Ivan.

He looked completely at ease, legs stretched out, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“You showed up,” Ivan said, smirking.

Taro didn’t reply. He wasn’t here for small talk.

Ivan nodded toward the ring. “Ever been in a real fight, kid?”

Taro hesitated. “I’ve fought before.”

“Street fights don’t count.” Ivan exhaled a cloud of smoke, his expression unreadable. “You ever fought for something bigger than just making it through the night?”

Taro clenched his fists. He had spent his whole life fighting for survival. Wasn’t that big enough?

Ivan chuckled at Taro’s silence. “I see potential in you. But potential means nothing unless you prove yourself.”

He gestured toward the ring, where one of the fighters—a tall, muscular man with a shaved head—was climbing out. “You win, you walk out of here with another ten grand. You lose, you walk out with nothing.”

Taro felt every pair of eyes in the room shift to him. The tension was thick, a silent challenge hanging in the air.

He had two choices—walk away, or step into the ring.

He didn’t hesitate.

Taro pulled off his hoodie and climbed into the ring. His opponent was already waiting—Dmitri, one of Ivan’s enforcers. The man was built like a tank, his knuckles scarred from years of breaking bones.

The moment the bell rang, Dmitri charged.

Taro barely dodged the first swing, feeling the force of the punch cut through the air beside him. He didn’t have size or strength, but he was fast.

Dmitri swung again—slower this time. Taro ducked and drove a sharp elbow into the man’s ribs. Dmitri grunted, but didn’t stop. Instead, he grabbed Taro by the hoodie and yanked him forward, slamming a knee into his stomach.

Pain exploded through Taro’s ribs, but he didn’t fall. Instead, he twisted, using the momentum to slip out of Dmitri’s grip and drive his fist into the man’s jaw.

Dmitri staggered.

Taro didn’t stop. He went for the weak spot—body shots, quick jabs, anything to wear him down. He fought with the desperation of someone who had nothing to lose, nothing to go back to.

The crowd roared as Dmitri finally hit the mat.

Taro stood over him, breathing hard. His knuckles were raw, his ribs aching, but he had won.

Ivan clapped slowly, standing up. “Not bad,” he said, tossing another envelope at Taro’s feet. “You just bought yourself a place at my table.”

Taro picked up the money, his fingers tightening around it.

For the first time, he wasn’t just surviving.

He was winning.

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