"You're free to go."
The words echoed through the cold, damp corridor, barely cutting through the clanging of metal gates. The voice was firm, indifferent—like it had said this a thousand times before.
Mark's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "I'm what?"
"Free to go," the guard repeated, sharper this time. "I'm not going to say it again."
A rough hand gripped his shackles, dragging him forward. His boots scraped against the concrete as they led him toward the changing rooms. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, flickering in and out like they, too, couldn't quite believe what was happening.
Mark stiffened. "You're messing with me... I still have two years to go."
The guard barely spared him a glance. "Overcrowding, Jin."
Mark's teeth clenched. "I told you last time, it's Mark."
"Yeah, yeah." The guard smirked slightly, tossing a glance at the receptionist ahead. "Take care of him, Sheila."
Sheila, the prison secretary, shifted uneasily as she unlocked his cuffs. "Please fill this out." She handed him a form, but Mark didn't even glance at it.
His eyes were on her instead, studying the way her fingers trembled just slightly, how her smile barely held together. Why is she nervous?
"Yeah, yeah..." Mark muttered, finally lowering his gaze to the paper in his hands. His brow furrowed. "An NDA?"
Sheila inhaled sharply. "All information is stated on the form."
Mark's lip curled. "Right. You take me for a fool? There's nothing regarding the terms of the NDA on this paper. What if I disclose something I'm 'not meant to'?"
Sheila's hands tightened around her clipboard. "I'm not sure." Her voice was quiet. "You can sign an appeal after you leave. In the meantime, here are your belongings."
A plastic bag was thrust into his hands—his old, tattered shirt, torn trousers, and a near-dead cellphone with a cracked screen. He scoffed. "Lucky me. I get my shit back."
The gates groaned open, rust scraping against rust. A gust of cold wind hit his face, smelling of city smog and wet pavement.
Mark took one step forward. Then another.
Then he stopped.
A strange sensation crawled up his spine—not relief, not joy, but something colder. This wasn't just about 'overcrowding.' The nervous secretary, the missing terms on the NDA, the way the guards wouldn't meet his eyes.
They wanted him out.
But why?
His fingers raked through his overgrown hair, his smirk barely hiding the unease twisting in his gut.
"This... this is Freedom's First Steps."
And yet, as he crossed the threshold into the outside world, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking into something far worse.
He didn't even realize how far society had gone. In just a short few years, the small compact phones he used to have all but been outdated. "Guess I need to get up to date, huh?" He groaned.
The wind cut through Mark's thin hoodie as he moved through the streets, head down, hands stuffed in his pockets. Three weeks out of prison, and the world already felt like it had left him behind. No job. There is no place to go. No one is waiting for him. Survival was all that mattered now, and survival meant taking what he needed.
Petty crimes had become routine. Snatching wallets, stealing from corner stores, robbing distracted people who weren't paying attention. He didn't take more than he needed—just enough for food, maybe a place to crash for the night. The way he saw it, the world had already taken from him first.
Tonight, it had been easy. The girl never saw him coming. One second, she was laughing with her friends. The next, he had her purse in his hands and was sprinting into the alley. She screamed, but by the time she turned, he was already gone. Just another face in the city's shadows.
Or so he thought.
A sharp whistle echoed behind him as he reached the end of the alley. Mark turned, heart pounding, to see them—five guys blocking the exit. High school kids, but the kind that carried themselves like they ran these streets. Matching colors, cocky smirks, and one guy at the front who wasn't smiling at all.
"That was my girl you just robbed," the leader said, stepping forward. His voice was steady, but his eyes burned with something worse than anger.
Mark exhaled sharply, gripping the purse strap. "Bad luck," he muttered, already looking for a way out.
"No," the leader said, rolling his shoulders. "Bad luck is what's about to happen to you."
The gang closed in, their shadows stretching under the flickering streetlights. Mark had been in fights before. He had survived worse. But here, outnumbered, with no escape in sight... he knew this was going to hurt.
The fight started, and Mark was already against the wall. He had been in these types of situations in prison, and they almost never went well for him, but something was different.. "they so slow!" He almost chuckled, being scared for nothing, realizing these delinquents were nothing compared to the monsters he was forced to battle whilst he was incarcerated.
Mark's breath was steady, but his heart pounded like a war drum. Five gang members surrounded him in the narrow alley, their grins dripping with confidence. Their leader, a wiry guy with a scar down his cheek, cracked his knuckles. Mark exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.
The first one lunged—a big guy, all muscle, swinging a wild right hook. Mark ducked, feeling the wind of the punch whip past his ear. He drove a sharp elbow into the guy's ribs, making him stumble back with a pained grunt.
Another came in fast, a switchblade flashing in the dim light. Mark twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the blade as it sliced through his jacket. Before the attacker could recover, Mark grabbed his wrist, twisting it violently. The knife clattered to the ground, and Mark delivered a brutal knee to the guy's stomach, sending him crumpling.
The third and fourth rushed him together. One threw a sloppy jab—Mark parried, using his forearm to knock it aside before delivering a lightning-fast uppercut that snapped the guy's head back. But the other one was quicker, managing to land a hard punch to Mark's ribs. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth and spun into a roundhouse kick, his foot cracking against the attacker's temple.
Only the leader remained.
The leader sneered, pulling out a metal pipe from behind his back. "Not bad. But let's see you handle this."
He swung hard. Mark barely dodged in time, the pipe scraping against the brick wall behind him. Before the leader could recover, Mark closed the distance, grabbing his wrist and delivering a savage headbutt. The gang leader staggered, stunned—Mark didn't hesitate. A swift kick to the back of his knee dropped him, and one last punch to the jaw put him down for good.
Silence filled the alley.
Mark stood over the unconscious bodies, his chest rising and falling. Blood dripped from his knuckles, but he didn't care.
An old man crossed the road, making his way to where he lived. He walked through the narrow allyway traversing the maze that led him to him home, "One more corner." He smiled, his knees tired and his back aching from his day of hard work. As he turned the corner, his eyes had been subjected to what he called a "Masterpiece."
Marks breathe steamed in the icy air as if embodying the fire within him, as if roaring. "Let me out!" Or even "Set me free!"
The man watched as the young man in front of him collapsed onto the cold, hard concrete below. "Incredible!" His rugged voice could only voice this one word of praise, he examined the unconscious Marks blood stained knuckles, "All the tell tail signs of a natural born hard hitter!" The man's eyes gleamed with excitement. Indeed, he had come across an anomaly.
"Jin! You're a big brother!" A woman's voice echoed in his mind.
"Jin!"
"Jin!"
"Mark!"
"Just hold on. We'll come back for you soon!"
"Wake up."
"Wake up!"
"Wake up!"
Mark shot up out of his bed, a bead of sweat running down his face, "That same dream.." he cradled his head before stiffening up and checking his pockets. He sighed "atleast they didn't steal my belongings!"
"You're awake?" A deep voice stated as the creak of a door rang in Marks' ears.
Mark shot up. He hadn't even considered checking his surroundings. He was too dazed to even realise he was in bed. "Who are you? Where am i?" He shouted, demanding an answer.
"Chill out, kid." The voice revealed itself to be an elderly man, seemingly to be in his late sixties, "I bandaged you up as well as I could, but even then you'll need a few days to rest up." The man explained before placing a tray of food and a glass of milk at the bedside table. "I'm Roy, Roy Jones, and you?" The man smiled.
"I'm Mark.. Just Mark."
Roy pulled a chair out and sat adjacent to Mark, "5 boys, all on your own? Quite an accomplishment, huh?"
Mark stuffed his face as Roy spoke, only letting out a quick "Mhm?" As he jammed the food down.
"Where'd you learn to fight?" Roy leaned forward in anticipation, his face littered with interest.
Mark gasped before chugging the glass of milk given to him, "I learned to fight in prison." He exhaled before continuing his meal.
"Prison, hm? Not to pry, but surely you can't make a decent living with a criminal record?" Roy almost cracked a devious smile but kept himself composed and professional in his demeanor.
"Nope." Mark answered bluntly, resting the now empty tray back on his bedside, "Whats it to you?".
"I'm a trainer... a boxing trainer, to be exact," the old man said, his voice steady but not forceful. "And my gym could use someone like you—a hard hitter with real fire."
Mark scoffed, leaning back against the headboard of the cheap motel bed. "I'll pass, old man." His voice was flat, uninterested. "Not my kind of thing."
Roy, standing near the window, simply nodded as if he'd expected that answer. He glanced outside, watching the city lights flicker against the dark. "I get it, kid. You're tired. You're looking for something more than just another fight." He turned back, meeting Mark's weary gaze. "But tell me this—what are you really looking for?"
Mark hesitated, fingers unconsciously curling against the bandages on his knuckles. "I just... I just wanna know peace." His voice softened, almost like a confession. "What peace is there in fighting for money? I'm no war-monger."
Roy chuckled, a deep, knowing sound. "Fighting ain't about war, kid. Not in the way you think." He walked over, sitting on the edge of a chair across from Mark. "There's no peace in throwing punches just to hurt someone. But in the ring? There's something else. Something... different."
Mark glanced at him, skeptical. "Different how?"
Roy tapped a fist lightly against his own chest. "Peace within." His eyes were steady, filled with something Mark hadn't seen in a long time—belief. "The kind of peace that comes from knowing you took control of your life. That you stood for something. That you didn't just survive—you fought to live."
Mark's breath hitched slightly, his gaze falling to his hands. They trembled, just a little, as he clenched them into fists. The scabs on his knuckles strained against the motion, a reminder of the fights that weren't chosen—only endured.. Roy leaned back, giving him space to think. "You've got something in you, kid. I've seen a lot of fighters come and go, but the kind of power you have? That doesn't come around often." He smiled faintly. "I'm talking the kind of power the greats had—Dempsey, Hearns, Ali, Tyson. Men who didn't just throw punches. They made history."
Mark's lips parted slightly. Legends...
"Could someone like me really...?" His voice trailed off, uncertainty clouding his thoughts.
Roy didn't push. He just let the silence settle, heavy but not uncomfortable.
"You'll figure that out for yourself, kid," he said at last, rising to his feet. "Just don't walk away from something before you know what it really is."
And with that, he headed for the door, leaving Mark alone with his thoughts—his heart pounding louder than it had in a long, long time.
"I know for a fact you could! Not just any man your age can take on 5 people, even if they were just ruffian kids!"
"Kids?" Mark almost scoffed, "they weren't much younger than me!"
"I could figure that by your own attitude." Roy retorted, but his resolve held strong indeed. He wanted this boy to make waves. "Still, you'll consider my offer?"
"Maybe." Mark stood before making his exit.
"Wait! You're still recovering, Mark!"
"These?" Mark pointed at his bruised body, "These are nothing!"
With the clothes gifted to him by Roy on his back, Mark had made his exit.
Time passed, and even still, Mark struggled. He couldn't land a job. Application after Application, he applied himself over and over, yet nothing positive ever came his way.
Mark sat against a park bench, watching as families passed by.
"Dad! Can we get ice cream?"
"Come on, son. Did you really have to ask?" The father reached into his wallet and took out some loose change.
Mark sighed, his breath shaky as a fleeting warmth settled over him. For a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to feel it. "What a sight to behold," he murmured, his palm pressing against his cheek as if to ground himself in the moment.
But warmth was never meant to last.
That familiar, suffocating dread slithered in, wrapping around his chest like a vice. The peace he had barely grasped was wrenched away, replaced by a cold fury that burned deep in his bones. His fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into his skin, but nothing could hold back the storm raging inside him.
He couldn't sit still.
Mark shot to his feet, his body moving before his mind could catch up. Run. That was all he could do. His legs carried him forward, faster and faster, the wind biting at his face, his breath ragged. He didn't want to stop. He couldn't. Because if he did, if he slowed down even for a second, that fury—the pain—would consume him whole.
As he came to a stop Mark's stomach clenched in agony, a hollow ache gnawing at his insides. Hunger had long since turned to desperation. His breath came in short, ragged bursts as he stood outside the bakery, staring through the glass. The scent of fresh bread and pastries taunted him, making his resolve tighten. He had no choice. He had to steal.
He yanked his hood up, heart hammering in his chest, and pushed through the door. The bell jingled, sharp and accusing, but he kept his head down. His eyes locked onto the fridge at the back. Every step felt like wading through quicksand.
Reaching out, he snatched a sandwich and a drink in one swift motion. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Then—he bolted.
The world blurred around him as he tore through the exit, the shouts of the cashier erupting behind him. Footsteps pounded. Were they chasing him? His pulse roared in his ears. He couldn't stop now. Not when survival depended on it.
Mark collapsed onto the damp grass, his chest heaving, every breath sharp and ragged. His legs burned, his lungs screamed, but none of it mattered. He was alone now—no shouting, no chasing footsteps, no threats looming over him. Just the quiet hush of the clearing, the whisper of the wind through the trees.
With trembling hands, he tore into the sandwich, devouring it like a starving animal. Every bite was both salvation and torment, his body desperate for nourishment, but his mind elsewhere—somewhere deeper, darker.
Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks before he even realized he was crying. The weight of everything—the hunger, the fear, the fight—pressed down on him all at once.
Mark made his way to the local bar, taking a seat at the table "What'll it be?" The bartender asked.
"I'm just here for a warm place, no drinks." Mark shut the offer down, his head rested against the cold wooden table.
"First drinks on the house. Mr..?"
"Mark, just mark, whats the occasion?" he raised his head, revealing his tear stained eyes.
She smiled, turning her head towards the TV, "It's my brothers debut, so whatcha want?"
Mark followed her gaze as his eyes landed on the TV "I'll have a Boilermaker."
"Whiskey or Spirit?"
"Whiskey."
She smiled "Finally warming up, huh? A Boilermaker, what's got you so down?" she asked whilst pouring his drinks.
"Just stuff." she handed him the shot glass and mug, he poured the Whiskey into the beer and slowly sipped.
"Ooh, How stoic!" she joked, elbowing him. "Sorry i'm being rude, aren't I? i'm Nevara, nice to meet you." Nevara held her hand out for a handshake.
"You ain't gotta be so formal." Mark chuckled shaking her hand.
"Sorry, I'm just a little nervous is all, you know with my brothers debut match.." She frowned again, her eyes landing back on the TV before transitioning to a man who came into the bar and sat next to Mark, The man himself almost towered above Mark.
"Just the usual, Neve." The man smiled.
The bar quieted at his entrance "Is that who i think it is?"
"Of course, Mr. Blackwood." Nevara smiled back.
"Quite the entrance there, Mr. Blackwood." Mark opened, his eyes as calculated as ever.
"Haha! Cant help it lad, call me Soren." the man laughed, holding his hand out, offering a handshake.
"I bet you can't, call me Mark."
Their hands met and almost as if the moment their hands made contact, something passed between them. It was more than just the touch of skin. It was a jolt—raw, visceral. A shock, like a live wire had been attached to their fingertips. Their bodies stiffened, their eyes narrowing, but neither pulled away. It wasn't just their hands that burned; it was something deeper, something that stretched across the boundaries of rivalry and danger.
For a moment, time held its breath. Neither spoke, neither moved. The handshake felt like an agreement, an unspoken promise. The shock lingered, humming, as if the universe itself was waiting for them to make the next move.
Soren's smile didn't waver, but there was something in his eyes—something like recognition. Mark felt it too, a spark that made his pulse quicken, his grip tighten, before he finally pulled his hand away.
They stood there for a moment longer, the air thick with anticipation. Then, with one final glance, they each turned away—one driven by vengeance, the other by a quiet resolve, but both unknowingly bound by that single, charged moment.
They sat in silence for a minute, Soren was the first to talk, "You look familiar, kid. Do i know you?"
Mark's gaze didn't falter, his hair stood on end but his breath steady, "I'd remember a man like you."
Soren laughed, smacking Mark's back, "Yeah, I would too! You're some kid ya'know!"
"Nice to see you two getting along!" Nevara chimed in, sliding a Gin and Tonic across the table towards Soren, her eyes on Mark.
Mark, however, watched as Soren swiftly caught the gin and tonic, his fingers curling around the glass with practiced ease. The light from the bar flickered in Soren's eyes, and for a moment, the tension between them seemed to swell.
Soren finished his drink, deciding to make his exit. He placed the empty glass down with a deliberate click, his eyes briefly meeting Mark's before he turned and began to walk away, his movements smooth and purposeful.
The door creaked, before slamming, Mark sipped his drink his attention back on Nevara, "Who was he?"
Nevara raised a brow "You mean you don't know?" she almost frowned.
"He has something about him... something powerful..." Mark grit his teeth, his grip tightening around his mug.
"Well obviously, dummy! Hes the middle-weight champion, Soren Blackwood."
Mark's eyes widened, his grip on the mug loosening, "Middle-weight, you sure?" Mark blinked, taken aback by the sudden mention of Soren's title. "Middleweight champion? Soren Blackwood?" His tone was laced with confusion and a hint of skepticism. He'd never heard of him—never even considered that someone like Soren might be more than just another name in the crowd.
He rubbed a hand over his face, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "So what? That doesn't mean anything to me." The words came out sharper than he intended, as if defending his own lack of recognition. The idea of this man, this champion, existing just outside his radar, made something dark stir inside him.
Mark glanced around the room, his eyes narrowing as if expecting everyone to be in on some joke he wasn't privy to. "Guess I'll have to make my decision.. huh?" His voice was cold, but there was an edge of determination.
Mark stood, the words about Soren still hanging in the air like a weight he couldn't shake off. He shot one last glance at the crowd, his jaw tight. The name Soren Blackwood was still foreign to him, but something about it—it bothered him, gnawed at him.
Without saying another word, he stood, his chair scraping roughly against the floor as he pushed it back. His movements were brisk, almost aggressive, as he made his exit, the door swinging shut behind him with a sharp snap.
Outside, the cool air hit him, but the heat of his frustration didn't let up. He gritted his teeth, shoving his hands into his pockets. He might not know who the hell Soren Blackwood was now, but that wouldn't last. Not for long.
"Decision? About what?" Nevara murmured before looking down, her eyes on the two strangers mugs, "They didn't even finish.."