The basement is hot, packed with bodies pressed in close, the air thick with sweat and cigarette smoke. The only light comes from a single flickering bulb swinging above the makeshift ring—just scuffed concrete surrounded by a circle of eager onlookers. Money changes hands. Bets are shouted. Someone slaps your shoulder as you step forward.

“Better not choke,” a voice sneers from the crowd.

A man in a leather jacket raises a hand, silencing the noise. “No rounds. No refs. Fight.” Then he steps back.

Your opponent doesn’t hesitate. A fist comes flying at your face. You duck just in time, feeling the heat of the punch skim past your ear. The crowd explodes.

“Too slow!” someone calls.

You counter with a quick jab to their ribs. Your knuckles connect, and your opponent grunts, stumbling back a step. A few people cheer in your favor.

“Come on! Hit ‘em back!” someone else shouts.

And they do—hard. A knee slams into your stomach, knocking the breath from your lungs. You hear laughter from the sidelines.

“That’s more like it!”

You grit your teeth, shaking off the pain. Your opponent smirks, bouncing on their feet. “That all you got?”

The crowd leans in, waiting for your next move. The fight isn’t over.