The locker room beneath the Docks of Madero smelled of salt, rust, and second chances. The flickering lights buzzed like nervous insects, cutting through the mist of sweat and liniment oil.Nico Alvarez sat in front of a cracked mirror, his reflection glistening with purpose. His jaw was set, his muscles coiled beneath the sheen of oil. It was a body built from hard years and harder luck.For once, the fire in his eyes wasn’t desperation — it was belief.This was supposed to be the night that changed everything. The night he clawed his way out of the underground circuit and back into the spotlight he’d once dreamed of.He had worked hard to convince his former coach El Rico to promote the event and invite scouts so that his talent will be spotted and he could go pro.He wound the white tape around his knuckles, slow and methodical, the ritual steadying his heartbeat. Every pull of the wrap felt like the tightening of destiny itself.“Careful, champ,” said Miguel ‘Old Migs’ Romero, his

The locker room smelled of sweat, rust, and failure. The cheers from the docks had faded into distant echoes, replaced by the faint dripping of a leaking pipe somewhere above. Nico Alvarez sat on a stool, motionless. His gloves dangled from his hands, torn and blood-stained — a pair of broken promises. His breath came shallow, his chest heaving from a fight he could’ve won… but wasn’t allowed to. He gritted his teeth so hard they squeaked. His reflection in the cracked mirror mocked him — swollen lip, bloodied brow, and eyes that no longer recognized themselves. His coach Miguel “Old Migs” Romero hovered by the corner, hesitant. The silence between them was heavier than the blows Nico had taken in the ring. “Kid…” Migs started softly. Nico’s voice was a low growl. “Don’t.” Migs took a slow step closer, guilt carved deep into his face. “You did what you had to—” “—What I had to?” Nico shot up from the stool, his chair clattering against the wall. His voice thundered throug

The night was restless.Rain had begun to fall in a thin silver thread, weaving through the cracked gutters of Madero District. The lights of the Docks burned far behind Tobias, but their echo still followed him — the roar of a crowd devouring its own hero.He walked through it without looking back, his shoes crunching on wet gravel, the faint scent of blood still clinging to his coat. The match-fixer, the mob, the cash — all left behind like burnt pages. Tobias’s mind was already on the next line of the story.A storm was rising over Sanvelis. And storms, he knew, always brought ghosts to the surface.The Madero Bridge crouched low over a forgotten canal. It was a skeleton of steel and cracked concrete. The kind of place where city lights dared not reach. Here, the rain fell harder, hitting the metal girders like the drumming of machine-gun fire.Tobias stopped under the arch. Smoke from his cigarette curled upward, caught briefly by the wind before dissolving into the dark.He had f

The bridge had stopped roaring hours ago.Morning bled pale through the clouds, gray and cold. Under it, Ricardo “Ghost Eye” Valdez sat by a gutter-fire that had gone out sometime before dawn. His hands trembled as he tried to light another match. It snapped in two.The tremors weren’t from the cold. They were from memory. Kandara Ridge again — the shouting, the children, the rifle that refused to miss.He pressed his palms to his temples, whispering, “Stop… please stop…”But the ghosts never listened.“Hey!”The shout cracked through the morning like a whip.Ricardo looked up. Three men in filthy coats were walking toward him from the underpass. Their leader was a thick-necked brute with half his teeth missing and a grin that didn’t know kindness. The locals called him the Warden — the self-proclaimed king of the bridge.“Well, well,” the Warden sneered, kicking Ricardo’s empty can of beans across the puddle. “Our war hero’s awake.”Ricardo said nothing.The man circled him like a hy

The city woke up angry.Gray smoke rolled over Ciudad de Sanvelis like a dirty blanket.Election posters hung torn on the highways. Those posters contained smiling faces promising peace to people of Sanvelis. Even to the ones who still fought to buy bread.Tobias stood by his black car, smoking slowly. The red tip of his cigarette glowed in the cold.Cielo sat near him, fixing her small drone.Nico wrapped tape around his hands like he was ready for a fight.Ricardo “Ghost Eye” Valdez sat high on a broken billboard, his scope pointed at the city below.“We’ll put Doña Valdeza in the Governor’s chair,” Tobias said. His voice was calm but sharp. “Not for love — for power. We need a voice in the state government.”Cielo looked up. “Politics is dirtier than the docks.”“Then we’ll learn to swim in dirt,” Tobias said.Nico asked, “And if we drown?”Tobias took a long drag. “Then we rebuild from what’s left.”No one laughed.A truck passed by and shook the bridge.Ricardo stayed quiet.Tobi