The life in the arena was thunderous, with roars from the crowd crashing against each other like tidal waves. Raw and frenzied, their chants reverberated through the domed stadium, the very ground trembling violently. Above it all, the announcer's voice soared, sharp and commanding, slicing through the cacophony like a blade.

"Ladies and gentlemen, first, fighting out of the red corner!" His words rolled forth with practiced drama. "A mixed martial artist carrying a professional record of 18 wins, 1 loss—Leopold 'The Berserker' Armstrong!"

The arena erupted in cheers and boos. Leopold stepped forward, an expression of stone, eyes smoldering with unwavering resolution. His towering frame seemed to emanate a quiet menace. Every step was a promise of ruin.

"And now," the announcer continued, his voice swelling with excitement, "FIGHTING OUT OF THE BLUE CORNER! The reigning, defending, undisputed, undefeated champion of the BFC lightweight division—Nikolai 'The King' Volkov!"

The crowd surged into a frenzy, the noise an almost physical force pressing against me. Standing under the unforgiving lights of the octagon, I did nothing but let it wash over me. My heart hammered against my ribcage, not out of fear but rather from the heaviness of everything this fight represented. Across the cage, Leopold's gaze locked on mine-a steady, unyielding challenge.

I knew that look. I'd seen it once before, in the moments before I'd defeated him, stealing his pride with a right hook that left him crumpled. But now, while he stood before me again, his will unbroken, I realized something sobering: this wasn't just a fight to him. This was payback.

The referee stepped between us, his presence a rigid line in the sand. "Red fighter, are you ready?" Leopold gave a single nod, his shoulders rolling back as if to shake off the weight of hesitation.

"Blue fighter, are you ready?" The question startled me. I forced a nod, though my chest tightened with a strange, electric tension.

The referee's arm shot upward. "Fighters, fight!

In an instant, we had closed the distance, our eyes interlocking in an unspoken war. The first exchange was a cautious dance, every movement measured, each feint probing for weakness. Then, in an instant, the tempo changed. Leopold surged forward, his jab a slug. I slipped sideways, countering with a double jab that snapped his head back. A right straight followed, but he flowed underneath it like water.

The world around us blurred to nothing but the cage and the storm of our combat. Every second was an eternity, every strike and counterstrike a brutal exchange of wills. A swell of confidence surged through me. Too much confidence.

He threw another jab—a distraction. The feint came a split second later, baiting me to shift right. I moved—and saw it too late. His left leg arced through the air with blistering speed, a scythe aimed for my head.

No, this early?

A sickening crack. Then, oblivion.

Sterile white walls swam into focus, a hum of hospital machinery droning in the background. My head pulsed with a dull, relentless ache. As the fragmented pieces of my memory reassembled, the weight of realization settled over me like a shroud.

"You were fighting for your championship belt," the nurse said softly when I asked. Her face was a mask of kindness, but her words cut like a final blow. "You lost.

The rest of her explanation faded into a haze. Lost. The word reverberated in my brain like a never-ending echo. Years of work undone in seconds. Thirteen seconds, to be exact. Shame crushing.

I sat in my hospital bed, phone in hand. Against my better judgment, I opened NowTube. The headline was everywhere: Nikolai "The King" Volkov Knocked Out in 13 Seconds by Leopold Armstrong. The thumbnail was damning—my body sprawled lifelessly on the mat, Leopold roaring in victory above me.

I clicked the video, unable to make myself stop. The fight played out in brutal clarity. Every single moment I thought I'd had a handle on, I saw Leopold dismantle with precision. The final kick that took me down replayed in slow motion, the sound of the impact haunting.

The comment section was a battleground. Fans were in my corner, mourning my fall; critics gloated. One such comment read: "13 seconds is all it took to end the so-called King."

Deep inside, this just made the shame burn deeper.

Hours later, I arrived at my apartment. Dead silence greeted me like a tidal wave. I slumped onto the couch, playing and replaying the fight in my head over and over.

The buzz of my phone cut through the stillness. It was Jose Martinez, my martial arts coach. "Hey, Niko," Jose's sharp voice came across. "Why didn't you tell us you were out of the hospital?"

"I—"

He didn't let me finish. "I told you not to take that fight. You're the champ, not some scrub. Well… you were the champ. And you ignored the game plan. We reviewed the footage, and Leo telegraphed that head kick from a mile away! Now our team's a joke. Anything to say for yourself?"

I swallowed hard, shame crawling into my tone. "Coach, I shouldn't have taken the fight. I should've listened to you, but—"

"'What's done is done,' huh?" His voice turned icy. "You know what? We're done too. Don't come back."

The line went dead.

I laid my phone down, staring blankly at the wall. What had happened to me? I'd always been so calm, calculated. But arrogance clouded my judgment.

Now, I really was alone.

The scream pierced the stillness of the night.

I sat up with a jerk, identifying the voice that of my elderly neighbor. Without a thought, I ran towards her apartment door. The door was open. Inside, a masked figure stood over the bloody figure of my neighbor, a knife gleaming in his hand.

The old lady lay still, blood flowing from her body. In the corner sat her daughter and granddaughter, faces contorted in terror.

The masked man turned toward me.

Adrenaline surged through me. I charged, tackling him to the ground. My elbows clashed with his face, desperation leading every strike. He wildly flailed and then I felt it-a sharp, searing pain across my throat.

Blood poured from this wound, my strength fading fast. But I couldn't stop.

Using the last of my strength, I jabbed my thumbs into his eyes. He screamed as his body buckled and his resistance wanned. I wrapped my hands around his neck, squeezing tight. I ignored the black spots invading my vision.

A sickening crack resounded through the room.

His body went limp beneath me.

I turned toward the mother and daughter. Their faces were petrified, their eyes wide with fear and denial. I tried to smile, my vision going dim.

At least I'd managed to get them out. Perhaps my life had counted for something, after all.

My face smacked against the floor, and then I was out cold.

The next thing I knew, I felt as though I was journeying through some sort of tunnel, colors blurring by and a light at the other end.

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was an endless light blue sky.

Where am I?