The Ghost Kid;
The narrow alleys behind the underground ring were dark and slick with the stench of fuel and sweat. Neon lights buzzed above, flickering on rusted signs written in languages Kenny no longer bothered to read. They were somewhere between shadows and adrenaline now—exactly where he thrived.
The match had ended moments ago.
Rael, now known in these parts only as "Ghost Kid," had stunned the audience with his silent victory. Dario—the son of a notorious fighting syndicate leader—stood confused near the back of the hallway, whispering to a classmate, "That kid… he cheated, I swear. No one fights like that."
Rael, walking past with his hoodie pulled low, only glanced over and muttered, "Huh." Just enough attitude. Just enough mystery. He didn't even slow his steps.
Behind the ring, in the smoke and concrete veins of the city, Kenny was already working.
Five masked men cornered him behind a delivery truck, agents from an unknown organization. The type who never talked. The type who knew who he was.
One of them stepped forward. "You're FarFlame."
Kenny cracked his knuckles. "Nah," he said. "That guy's dead."
Then, the first blow came fast—a steel baton aimed at his ribs. Kenny ducked beneath it, twisted, and slammed his elbow into the man's spine. The second attacker lunged with a combat knife, but Kenny caught his wrist mid-air and dislocated it with a single snap. He used the body as a shield as bullets rang out from the third man's pistol.
One versus five. No tech. No tricks. Only Kenny.
The street fight stretched nearly an hour. Blood mixed with rain. One man tried to run. Mistake. Kenny threw his knee into the guy's face so hard he collapsed into unconsciousness before hitting the ground. The last one—the leader—begged.
"Who sent you?" Kenny hissed.
But the man smiled through broken teeth. "You're… already in it…"
Kenny didn't ask again. He ended it clean.
---
Later that night, Rael sat across from Kenny in a hidden apartment above the ring. His hands were bruised, but his eyes were burning with questions.
"I got the intel you wanted," Rael said, handing over a folded slip of paper. "Every fighter in the school. And you were right. Dario's not just a student. His dad runs the syndicate."
Kenny nodded, flipping open the file. Dario's record confirmed it—he was connected to the Street Fighting Mafia, a violent underground network spanning five countries. One of the most wanted in South America. And now, Rael was in his inner circle.
"Make friends with him," Kenny said. "Get close. We need everything."
Rael hesitated. "You're using me as bait again."
"No," Kenny looked up with a rare seriousness. "I'm sharpening you."
---
The next night, the underground fight was hotter than ever. Flashing lights. Loud music. A roaring crowd. Rael stood in the center, face painted like a ghost, and Dario cheered for him from the VIP lounge, completely unaware that his new best friend was a Fenix-trained prodigy.
The fight lasted three minutes. The opponent—a muscle-heavy brute—fell to the floor after Rael caught him with a spinning knee and a brutal heel-kick to the temple.
The prize: $200,000.
Kenny watched from the shadows, his hand tightening on a new weapon: a non-detectable titanium blade, delivered straight from HQ. He smiled, just slightly.
Mission Two was unfolding perfectly.
---
Back at HQ, Kenny filed the report. Audio surveillance, school profiles, financial tracking—all of it. Fenix agents were stunned by how fast the operation was moving.
"You're not just gathering data," the handler whispered. "You're dismantling an empire."
But Kenny wasn't satisfied. Not yet.
He returned to the apartment that night, where Rael sat counting the money.
"Training starts tomorrow," Kenny said. "Next fight won't be that easy."
Rael smirked. "I could take you someday, old man."
Kenny turned to the window, the city burning beneath them.
"Not yet," he said. "But soon."