The day before the tournament.

  Michael tosses it at him like it’s nothing.

  “Tomorrow, you come up with a name.”

  Jason looks up.

  “A name?”

  Michael shrugs. Cigar between his lips.

  “A ring nickname.”

  Pause.

  “Down there, names draw attention. And you don’t want any.”

  Jason nods, slow.

  Michael watches him a second too long.

  “Whatever you want…”

  “Think about it. By tomorrow.”

  —

  Tournament day.

  In Michael’s garage there’s a single cold light, aimed straight down like an interrogation.

  Jason is alone.

  Or at least, it looks that way.

  The rag moves slow across the blue gas tank. One pass. Then another. Always the same. The polished metal throws his face back at him, broken by curves—serious, warped, almost unfamiliar. Every motion is ritual. Not for the bike.

  To keep his head still.

  His hands stop.

  Hard calluses. Raised veins. Thin scars—old cuts that never apologized to anyone. Jason looks at them without pride.

  Without disgust.

  Just facts.

  Behind him, a presence.

  Michael leans against the garage frame. Still. He doesn’t really step in—he claims the space without moving.

  His voice lands flat, unhurried.

  “Tomorrow I won’t be there to protect you.”

  Jason doesn’t turn. Doesn’t answer. His jaw works for a second, like he’s chewing something bitter.

  Michael goes on. Every word drops clean. Heavy.

  “In there…”

  Pause.

  “…it’s just you.”

  Another pause.

  “And what you’ve become.”

  Jason breathes in through his nose. The air is cold, smells like metal and oil. He takes a beat longer than needed, like he’s telling his body not to shake.

  Then he grabs the jacket.

  Puts it on calmly. One sleeve. The other. Zips it up without a hitch. A clean gesture. Final.

  “Perfect.”

  Not an answer to Michael.

  A signature.

  Harbor District — Night

  Lead-colored sky. Fine rain, sharp, that doesn’t fall—it scratches.

  Rusty containers form a metal maze. Narrow corridors. Deep shadows. The smell of sea mixes with wet iron and diesel, and every sound bounces wrong, distorted, like the place has its mouth full.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Somewhere, a sheet of metal is shoved aside.

  Scrape.

  Under it, an opening in the concrete.

  Black. Narrow. Wrong.

  BRUMMM.

  The metallic blue bike rolls into the zone and slices the silence. The engine’s too clean for that rusted graveyard. An animal out of place.

  Jason is on the saddle. Dark jacket. Polished helmet. Shoulders low, control high. Eyes locked forward, like looking sideways would already be a loss.

  Behind him, Michael walks slow, cigar lit. The ember pulses—small, mean. Bronx at his heel, black as the night, stuck to his legs like a living shadow. The dog doesn’t sniff.

  Doesn’t wander.

  He assesses.

  Jason scans the containers, the opening, the wet concrete reflecting the dirty headlight glow.

  The words leave him without force, but they’re not a question.

  “What kind of place is this…”

  Michael doesn’t change pace. Doesn’t change tone.

  “Our little amusement park for the night.”

  Rain hisses on the cigar. The ember holds.

  Then that dry irony that lightens nothing.

  If anything, it slips the blade in and turns it slow.

  “If you’re a good little boy and show who’s in charge…”

  A beat of silence. The ember flares.

  “…I’ll buy you some cotton candy.”

  Jason lets out half a smile.

  Barely. A crack. More reflex than mood.

  Then the air shifts.

  Two armed men step out of the shadows and block them. Fast movements, used to aiming first and thinking later. Their boots crush water, louder than they should be.

  Michael lifts his chin just a touch. Polite. Like at a restaurant.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  One guard recognizes him instantly. His gaze snaps on and freezes, like when you see a fire already burned out but don’t dare get close.

  “Go on in, Michael…”

  Pause.

  Then his eyes slide to Jason. Hard. Inquisitive. He doesn’t see a kid—he sees a problem.

  “And who’s he?”

  Jason doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t lower his head. Doesn’t play mysterious.

  His voice is simple. Flat. No dressing.

  “Pistol Boy.”

  —

  After the check, once they pass the entrance and start going down.

  Long stairs. Damp concrete. Dirty lights.

  The arena’s noise crawls up from below like a caged animal.

  Jason goes down without slowing.

  One. Two. Three steps.

  Then he realizes the footsteps behind him are gone.

  He stops.

  Turns.

  Michael stayed up top, still, one step higher, like he found something funny in the dark.

  He looks at him.

  Says nothing.

  Jason presses his lips together.

  “What?”

  Michael tilts his head slightly.

  “Pistol Boy…”

  Jason snorts.

  “What? You told me to come up with a name. Anything.”

  Michael stays calm.

  Too calm.

  “Sure.”

  Pause.

  “But you know… given your age, I expected a little more creativity.”

  Jason tightens his jaw, mildly annoyed.

  “What do you want? It’s better than nothing.”

  Michael shows a half-smile.

  It isn’t kind.

  It’s predatory.

  “But then…”

  Jason rolls his eyes, already bracing.

  “Here we go. Let’s hear it.”

  Michael steps half a pace closer, voice low, ironic, with that mocking edge that saves no one.

  “While you were at it, you could’ve written it on your forehead with a marker.”

  Pause.

  “‘I’m a Pistol Shrimp.’”

  Jason shoots him a glare.

  Michael keeps going, like he’s pitching an ad.

  “A cute little walking disaster, ready to blow up and kill everyone.”

  A beat.

  “While you’re at it, go sit on a bench in plain sight, relax, and wait for OPOM…”

  He blows smoke.

  “…or the Immortal Mafia. Grab a nice coffee together.”

  Jason stands there, half resigned, half pissed.

  “Come on, don’t exaggerate… it’s just a random nickname…”

  Michael doesn’t answer right away.

  He looks at him.

  Clever face. Slightly smug. Slightly proud of hitting the nerve just right.

  Then he jerks his chin downward.

  “Move.”

  And starts going down again like nothing happened.

  Pistol Boy.