The next morning, Jayce wakes up to aching muscles and a knock on the door. A man in a tailored coat stands in the hallway of his rundown apartment complex. He introduces himself as Lucien, a recruiter with deep ties to the underground fight world.
Lucien offers Jayce a cigarette, which he refuses. "I saw what you did last night," Lucien says, his voice smooth but laced with danger. "You’ve got more than fists—you’ve got fire. The kind that burns down empires... or builds them."
He slides a business card across the table: a black rectangle with silver lettering. No name, no title. Just a symbol—two fists locked in battle—and an address. “Come tonight,” Lucien adds, “if you’re ready to fight for more than just scraps.”
Jayce stares at the card long after Lucien leaves. He knows this world. He’s seen what it does to men. But something in Lucien’s offer gnaws at him. A shot at the Circuit—a brutal, legendary underground tournament where the winner earns the title "King of the Streets"—could change everything.
He tries to shake it off. He jogs through his neighborhood, eyes alert. The streets are tense. Murals of fallen fighters paint the alleys, and gang tags mark territory like battle flags. A kid shadowboxes near a trash fire, copying Jayce’s last match from a shaky phone recording. Jayce nods at him. The kid smiles. For a second, Jayce feels the weight of what he’s becoming.
Later that night, Jayce finds himself outside a steel door behind a shuttered meat market in the Red Light District. A bouncer nods him through. Inside, a sprawling facility hums with energy—fighters warming up, medics prepping stretchers, announcers testing mics. This isn’t just a fight—it’s a spectacle.
Lucien greets him with a smirk. “Welcome to the Circuit.”
Jayce watches as two fighters enter the octagon. The crowd roars. It’s savage—one gets knocked unconscious, the other nearly breaks his arm trying to finish the job. Blood stains the canvas before the bell even rings. People cheer louder for pain than skill.
“Fighters die in here,” Lucien says, almost casually. “But if you survive… you rise.”
Jayce is handed paperwork—rules, waiver of liability, and a non-disclosure agreement. He signs. He’s already crossed a line by entering.
Back at home, he looks at his mother sleeping peacefully. The machines beep rhythmically. His fingers brush her hand. “I’m doing this for you,” he whispers.
He knows what the Circuit is. It’s a meat grinder. A game run by crime lords, gang bosses, and ex-champions who never made it legit. But it’s also a path. A dangerous, blood-soaked path—but maybe the only one he has.
He tapes his hands again the next night. This time, it’s not for one fight. It’s for all of them. His body is bruised, but his spirit is sharpening.
Outside, graffiti on the wall near his building reads: “Fist over fear.” He runs his hand over the paint, takes a breath, and walks into the night.
And as word spreads across the city—through alley whispers, fight forums, and midnight radio—one name starts gaining traction.
Jayce Carter.
The Iron Flame.
And somewhere in the city, behind a boardroom table or a warehouse ring, someone updates the odds. Because a new contender has entered the Circuit.
And he’s not fighting to win.
He’s fighting to change the game.
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