“Well, what are you waiting for?” said Joseph Stewart tearfully. He lay against a fiery pile of rubble, clenching his side as his face was broken and bloodied. “Do it…”

  Jarah couldn’t look him in the eyes. It was too painful. Too personal.

  The silence between them fell short as the air became hard to breathe. And then Joseph screamed, “DO IT!”

  Jarah leveled the Asunder Pistol and fired.

  BANG!

  Jarah surged from the bed as a crack of thunder woke him up. His body was covered in sweat as it stained the sheets beneath him. His breath was heavy and ragged as he tried to calm himself from the nightmare.

  Jarah turned to see a young woman lying beside him, naked and asleep—the prostitute from Roxie’s Bar who overstayed her welcome. He didn’t care, though. He was too caught up in his thoughts, too damaged to think straight.

  Jarah climbed out of bed, his sculpted body glistening with sweat under the neon hue from the windows. He crept to the edge of the room and observed the boxing memorabilia on his shelf: photographs and trophies from his younger, more reckless days when he still had a mentor, a role model.

  Jarah moved closer to the shelf. He looked at a gold medal labeled District Golden Gloves. He gently pushed his fingers along the sleek medallion. In the distance, he could hear Joseph’s voice instructing him.

  “—left hook, roll, step back, jab—”

  It was all there. Everything he needed to become a fighter in this godforsaken city was all in his head. But he didn’t want that responsibility. Not now. Maybe not ever—

  Jarah found himself in the markets when the rain settled by noon. The streets were packed as usual, congested with the same insensitive vendors and merchants who tried to get more than just credits. He didn’t remember it being this chaotic. Not since Buchanan was sworn into office after Richard Prime’s death.

  “You look terrible,” Natsuki said as she appeared beside him.

  Jarah glanced down at her and shook his head, annoyed.

  “Bad dreams?” she guessed while keeping pace. “I get those a lot, too.”

  Jarah stopped and turned to her. “Look, kid, I don’t know what your deal is, but you’re pissing me off. I don’t have time to entertain street rats who can barely wash their face. Now I’m only going to tell you this once—leave me the fuck alone.”

  Natsuki glared at him bitterly, her eyes boiling with tears. Jarah pressed on but stopped. When he looked back, he saw that Natsuki was gone—

  As the evening came, a cluster of dark clouds rolled in. Jarah stood before Uncle Joe’s Boxing Gym near the Northside Industrial District. The building was a relic of time, its concrete peeling from age, and its letters barely legible under layers of dirt.

  Jarah swallowed hard. The nightmare still gripped his mind—the image of Joseph Stewart’s lifeless body, his mentor’s blood spilling over the cracked pavement. Jarah closed his eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled, and stepped inside.

  The gym had decayed; the scent of mildew and old leather hit Jarah like a right hook. However, memories surged in his psyche when he saw the dusty ring in the center of the room. The rhythmic pound of punch mitts, Stewart’s voice correcting his form, the burn in his muscles after a grueling training session. He could almost see his younger self in the ring, fists up, eyes locked on his coach, determined to master every movement.

  “—Keep your hands up, kid,” Stewart’s voice echoed in his mind. “A fighter’s gotta protect his own—”

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  Jarah clenched his fists, flexing fingers that had once curled into the perfect guard. He had wanted to make Stewart proud, but the old man was gone, and the gym had become just another ruin in the city’s underbelly.

  A scuffling noise shattered the moment. Jarah turned sharply, instincts from years in the streets kicking in. Silhouettes emerged from the dark corners of the gym—figures wrapped in leather and ink, their faces marred with jagged scars, skin stretched tight over cruelty.

  Outlaws.

  “Look what we got here, boys,” a sneering voice rasped. “Another lost bitch sniffin’ where he doesn’t belong.”

  Jarah’s gaze swept over the group, counting six. The one who spoke was the towering brute who demanded attention. Scar. A legendary outlaw of Jackson’s Army. He was an abomination of flesh and violence, a monster with scars carved deep around his throat and arms like trophies of war.

  “Didn’t your mama teach you not to wander into places you shouldn’t?” Scar cracked his knuckles, the sound like gunshots in the still air. “This place is ours.”

  Jarah’s pulse remained steady. “Says who?”

  “Says me, motherfucker,” Scar snarled. “You’re in the Judge’s territory, and that’s a serious violation for drifters like you. So here’s what’s gonna happen…”

  Scar motioned the five other outlaw members to surround Jarah. “You’re gonna give us everything you got. Credits, clothes, weapons, if any. And then we’re gonna cut your head off and stake it outside to let another stupid fuck know exactly where they’re at.”

  Jarah wasn’t intimidated. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Scar cracked an unnerving smile, challenging him. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Jarah said firmly. “Because here’s what’s gonna to happen…”

  Jarah calibrated his Huntsman. The display faintly glowed as it targeted the five surrounding outlaws. “I’m gonna kill your crew before they can even touch me, and then, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

  Scar’s eyes went cold as ice. “Well, I’d certainly love to see that—”

  The outlaws drew weapons—rusted pistols, serrated knives—but Jarah was faster. The Asunder Pistol materialized in his grip. His first shot dropped the paint-faced outlaw mid-step. The second sent another spiraling, blood blooming across his chest. The others scrambled to return fire, but Jarah swung his pistol, squeezing the trigger rapidly as the bullets carved through the gang with deadly accuracy.

  When the smoke cleared, only Scar remained.

  Jarah leveled the Asunder Pistol at Scar but held his finger off the trigger. The brute wiped blood from his cheek, unfazed. He stepped over the bodies of his men and cracked his neck, eyes gleaming with something close to admiration.

  “Not bad,” he said calmly, flexing his fingers. “But a real man doesn’t need a gun to settle things. Let’s see what those fists of yours can do.”

  Jarah hesitated for a breath, then holstered his pistol. The thrill of combat, the hunger to test his skill, stirred in his veins.

  Scar lunged first, swinging a hammer-like fist. Jarah dodged, weaving left and countering with a sharp jab to the ribs. The impact barely slowed Scar, who retaliated with a wild hook. Jarah ducked, and danced out of range, his footwork effortless. He struck again—body, body, head—a blur of fists designed to overwhelm.

  But Scar was a brute, not a fool. He took the hits and grinned, swinging wildly. One punch caught Jarah’s shoulder, sending him skidding back. Another grazed his ribs, pain flaring like fire. Jarah adjusted, breathing through the ache.

  Then Scar roared and charged, spearing Jarah by the waist and blitzing him through a rotted wall.

  Jarah crashed into the locker room, coughing dust. His body screamed, but the pain was an old friend. He forced himself up just as Scar barreled upward, fists raised. Jarah played defensively now, using the tight space to his advantage. He ducked under a swing, slammed Scar’s head into a locker, and drove a knee into his gut. The brute grunted but retaliated, grabbing Jarah by the throat and lifting him.

  Jarah gasped, vision dimming. He reacted out of instinct. He twisted, breaking the hold, and delivered a brutal uppercut. Scar staggered. Jarah seized the moment, launching a devastating haymaker that connected with bone-shattering force.

  A sickening crunch echoed through the locker room. Scar’s body hit the ground with finality. Jarah stood over him, breathing hard, his right hand throbbing. Broken. But he didn’t care.

  As he caught his breath, his gaze drifted to a nearby bench. Something out of place sat there—a vintage comic book, spotless despite the decay around it.

  Jarah picked it up, running a thumb over the cover. A story about an indomitable warrior. He tucked the comic book into his jacket and stepped over Scar’s corpse—

  The following morning, Natsuki returned to her comic stand. She began organizing the bent and faded comics in her box, but a new comic book fell out when she lifted the top to separate them. She gasped, her eyes drawn to the pristine, wrapped cover of a once prevalent issue—a hero standing upon the defeated, mechanical army.

  The Warforged Chronicles: The Indestructible Iron Fist—

  Natsuki picked up the comic book, turned it over, and found a note attached to the back that read, “Wash your face, kid.”

  Natsuki couldn’t help but smile.