GANGSTA - LEVEL UP : THE HUSTLER’S BLUEPRINT

Chapter 10 - A Different Path

A full week passed after the hillside.

Seven nights. Seven mornings.

LeRoy didn't leave the house once.

Time blurred together in that small room, hours marked only by the dull glow of the city bleeding through the window at night and the quiet hum of distant traffic during the day. The world outside kept moving, but LeRoy stayed still. Sitting. Lying down. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking about things he couldn't undo.

Levan's face came back to him more than he wanted. Not the way he looked at the end, but the way he used to smile when things went right. The way he laughed in the van after a clean escape. The way he always said they'd figure things out somehow.

Now there was nothing to figure out.

Marc had come by two days after the incident. No shouting. No blaming. Just a quiet knock and a heavy silence between them. He paid LeRoy what he'd been promised for the heist. Said it was only right. Said Levan would've wanted it that way.

LeRoy didn't argue.

The money sat untouched in his drawer.

He didn't feel like he'd earned it.

By the seventh day, the walls started to feel closer. Not physically, but mentally. Like the room itself was pressing him inward, forcing him to confront the truth he'd been circling around all week.

He was done.

Not just with heists. Not just with gangs.

With that life.

LeRoy stood up for the first time that morning and pulled on his jacket. The fabric felt unfamiliar, like he hadn't worn it in years. When he opened the door and stepped outside, the air hit him harder than he expected. Cold. Sharp. Real.

The street looked the same.

People passed by. Vendors shouted half-hearted deals. Somewhere down the block, music played from a cracked speaker. Life didn't pause for grief.

LeRoy exhaled and started walking.

He didn't have a destination in mind. Just movement. Just proof that he could still step forward instead of sinking further into his own head.

That's when the rumors caught up to him.

Word on the street had been circulating all week, whispered in corners and passed through chip networks like contraband. An underground tournament. Illegal. Quiet. Highly selective.

Chip users only.

The reason it was illegal was obvious. QUANTUM itself was banned, and anything that openly gathered users was a risk. But the payout was what made people listen.

Cash prizes big enough to change lives.

No stealing. No running. No ambushes in dark alleys.

Just strength.

LeRoy had ignored the notifications at first. Requests had come in even while he was locked inside his room, his HUD lighting up with invitations he refused to acknowledge. He wasn't ready then. His head wasn't clear.

But now, as he walked, the thought kept returning.

This was different.

Not clean. Not legal.

But contained.

A fight where the rules were clear and the consequences were his alone.

His HUD flickered again.

INCOMING REQUEST

Sender: SHAWN HALL

Affiliation: TOURNAMENT ORGANISER

LeRoy stopped walking.

He focused, letting the message expand.

The request was direct. Professional. No flowery promises.

Shawn Hall was listed as one of the organisers for this year's event. He was recruiting fighters personally. It stated clearly that entry wasn't open to the public. No permits, no access. If an organiser approved you, they took ten percent of whatever you earned.

Fair.

Below that, a short note blinked.

SPOTS REMAINING: 4

LeRoy felt something shift in his chest.

This wasn't the system pulling him into crime.

This was him choosing something else.

He accepted.

The reply came instantly.

MEET ME AT: NW2 75G

LOCATION: NEON GREEN, SECTOR 11

ACCESS CODE: AS-1567K9

ARRIVAL DEADLINE: 5:00 PM

LeRoy glanced at the time.

3:14 PM.

He did the math quickly. By tube, it would take just over an hour. Bullet train would be faster, but the price alone made that option laughable.

No need to rush, but he wasn't about to lose a spot.

He turned and broke into a jog toward the nearest station.

The platform was crowded, but the timing worked in his favor. He slipped through the gates just as the train doors slid open. As it pulled away, LeRoy leaned back against the wall, watching the city flash past the windows.

For the first time in days, his thoughts felt… quieter.

Not empty. Just focused.

When the train finally slowed and the doors opened, his HUD arrow pulsed sharply.

DESTINATION NEAR

LeRoy stepped out and immediately broke into a sprint, weaving past pedestrians, boots slapping against concrete. The arrow guided him down a narrow street lined with shuttered shops and flickering signs until it finally stopped.

In front of an ordinary house.

Two stories. Brick. Unremarkable.

Two women stood outside.

They were impossible to miss.

Both dressed in dark, gothic clothing, lace and leather mixed with sharp accessories. Their makeup was deliberate, eyes heavy with black liner, expressions unreadable. They turned toward him at the same time.

"What's your business here?" they asked together.

The way they said it sent a chill down his spine.

LeRoy slowed and raised his hands slightly, calm but alert.

"I've got an invitation," he said. "From Shawn Hall. Tournament entry."

They didn't respond immediately.

He recited the code.

"AS-1567K9."

Their gazes sharpened.

Something passed between them without words.

One of them stepped aside.

The door behind them creaked open.

"You're late," she said flatly. "Get inside."

LeRoy stepped forward.

And the door closed behind him.

Inside, the house was nothing more than a decoy.

Dust coated the floors. Plaster peeled from the walls. Old furniture lay broken or abandoned, draped in sheets like forgotten corpses. If LeRoy hadn't known better, he would've thought the place was truly empty.

But the staircase at the back told a different story.

The woman gestured once, sharp and wordless, and started down. LeRoy followed, step by step, the air changing with every descent. It grew warmer. Thicker. Charged, like static before a storm.

Then he heard it.

Shouts. Cheers. Anger. Excitement.

The sound hit him all at once, rising from below like a living thing. When the staircase finally opened, the underground space spread out before him in a flood of light and noise.

It wasn't a basement.

It was an arena.

Floodlights blazed from the ceiling, illuminating a massive hall carved beneath the city. Steel beams reinforced the walls. Screens hovered overhead, flashing fighter names, live stats, and rapidly shifting odds as credits changed hands in real time.

At the center stood the cage.

Steel mesh walls rose high, scarred by old impacts and stained with rust and dark patches no one bothered to clean anymore. The air reeked of sweat and metal, copper thick enough to taste. Every scream from the crowd echoed off concrete, multiplying until it became deafening.

People packed the space shoulder to shoulder. Some shouted bets. Others screamed insults or encouragement. Drinks sloshed. Credits flashed across personal HUDs. This wasn't entertainment.

This was release.

Inside the cage, two fighters were already tearing into each other. Chips glowed faintly beneath their skin as health indicators hovered in the air. Every punch sent sparks flying. One fighter staggered, HUD flashing warnings as his stamina drained fast.

LeRoy stood still, taking it in.

This was different from the streets.

Violence, yes. Illegal, definitely.

But here, it was contained.

"Move."

A large man stepped into his peripheral vision. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Expression carved from stone. He nodded once and guided LeRoy through the crowd, parting it with quiet authority.

They stopped in front of a man leaning casually against a metal railing.

Stocky. Ginger beard. Sharp green eyes that sized LeRoy up in a single glance. His smile came easy, confident, like he already knew how this would end.

"Shawn Hall," the man said, extending a hand. "One of the organisers."

LeRoy shook it. The grip was firm. Measuring.

"LeRoy Annan," he replied. "I got an invite."

Shawn's grin widened slightly. "You did. Rookie chip user, right?"

LeRoy didn't deny it.

"And you're here to earn a spot for the major tournament happening next week," Shawn continued. "Good. Everyone is. First, you gotta pass a trial fight. Only a limited number of fighters get permits to enter the main event. We decide who earns them."

He glanced back toward the noise of the arena.

"Survive here, prove you can handle a live crowd and real damage, and you get a slot."

He gestured toward a side corridor. "Come on. Let's see who you're standing with."

They moved away from the noise into a holding room carved into the concrete. The door slid shut behind them, muting the roar of the crowd to a distant rumble.

A dozen people waited inside.

Some sat quietly, heads lowered, breathing slow and controlled. Others leaned against the walls with arms crossed, eyes sharp, sizing everyone up. A few had visible signs of their chips already working, faint glows beneath their skin or unnatural stillness in their movements.

Different backgrounds. Same hunger.

"These are your peers," Shawn said casually. "First-timers. New blood. Some scared. Some stupid. Some dangerous."

His eyes flicked over them.

"Doesn't matter which one you are," he added. "Only thing that matters is who walks back out."

LeRoy stayed silent, taking a spot against the wall. He didn't sit. Didn't pace. Just waited.

The hum of the building seeped into his bones. Somewhere above them, another fight ended in a roar of approval. A few moments later, the door burst open.

Shawn strode back in, voice booming without effort.

"Alright. Listen up."

The room stilled instantly.

"I've got a match ready," he said. "Two of you are stepping into the cage. No backing out. No delays."

His gaze swept the room.

"If I call your name and you don't move," he continued calmly, "you're done here."

Silence tightened.

"Enoch Lander."

A tall man pushed off the wall across the room. Lean build. Sharp cheekbones. A thin scar running along his jaw. He rolled his shoulders once, loose and confident.

Then Shawn's eyes locked onto LeRoy.

"LeRoy Annan."

The HUD flickered at the edge of LeRoy's vision, reacting before he did. His heartbeat kicked up, not with fear, but anticipation.

He stepped forward.

Across the room, Enoch's eyes met his. Cold. Focused. Predatory.

The crowd above erupted as another match ended violently.

Shawn gestured toward the stairs leading back into the noise.

"Showtime," he said. "Let's see what you're worth."