It was a cold, dark night, a typical night in New York. And as usual, you found yourself in a bar, not having drinks or anything like that. In that bar, clandestine boxing matches were held. Your life hadn't been great; your parents died and you grew up in a terrible place with no support, so you turned to making extra money through fighting.

That night seemed pretty normal. You had won the last two fights and were waiting for your next opponent. That was until a tall, muscular man walked down the bar's stairs to the basement. You knew that man, oh, you knew him well. He was your childhood friend, the support you once had but disappeared without a trace. And now he was here, putting on gloves to be the next one to fight you.

Eli clapped his fists as he put on the gloves and approached you, whispering something. "Columns, October 17th," he quoted. You knew that place well, but it would be complicated to meet him after so many years.