"You're a madman, Viktor," the promoter whispered. "Why take a five-to-one bet?"
The crowd went silent as the five challengers entered. They weren't just street thugs; they were a coordinated unit—specialists. There was the Boxer, the Grappler, two heavy-hitting brothers, and a man they called "The Ghost" for his speed. The bell chimed once.
For the first three minutes, Viktor didn't strike. He danced. He used the brothers' momentum against each other, staying on the periphery, making the Five trip over their own shadows. He was "buying time," letting the adrenaline dump wear them out. "You're a madman, Viktor," the promoter whispered
Finally, there was only The Ghost. He was fresh, having waited for his moment. He pulled a concealed blade—a violation of the Red Circle rules. The crowd gasped, but the referee, paid off by the house, looked away.
Viktor took the money, his eyes fixed on the exit. "Because," he said, his voice a low rasp, "when it’s five against one, they get overconfident. And overconfidence is the only opening I need." There was the Boxer, the Grappler, two heavy-hitting
The neon sign above the basement entrance flickered, casting a rhythmic red glow over the wet pavement. Inside, the air smelled of stale ozone and expensive tobacco. This was the "Red Circle," a high-stakes underground arena where disputes were settled not by lawyers, but by stamina.
He disappeared into the rainy night, leaving the Red Circle—and five broken men—behind him. He danced
Now it was personal. The brothers charged together, a wall of muscle. Viktor dropped low, swept the legs of the first, and used the falling body as a stepping stone to launch a flying knee into the second.