Brass kicked a can, listening to the clamor of it slowly rolling down the alley in front of him. The noise of it brings a sense of peace to him as he observes the bouncer smoking by the rail. Something about the way the aluminum tin clicks and scrapes at the same time, particularly when it starts to slip down the concrete stairs leading to the back of the club, falling down, creates a satisfying thunk.

He stares nonchalantly at the bouncer, a knowing grin spreading across his face. A classic example of his kind, the man has some kind of black pants, matching tank top, and a bald head complete with tattoo, likely a gang sign of some kind; Or do they call themselves Tokuryū? Yakuza? Brass wasn't sure. He had only been in Japan a few days now, time enough only to familiarize himself with the area, not the culture.

Noticing the young man stare from just beyond the dim streets, the bouncer flicks his cigarette to the ground and shouts something in Japanese. Brass frowns, trying to catch the few words he recognizes. “Seiyohjin—you not learn to speak yet?” the bouncer says again, this time in heavily accented English. Brass can’t complain; his Japanese is practically nonexistent, something his little sister, Nina, has always teased him about.

She’s been fascinated by Japan for years—its history, ideals, traditions, all of it. Ever since she got into anime, she’d been trying to pass on her passion to him. He wasn’t exactly a willing student, usually preferring a good game when he could steal some free time. Yet her persistence had finally rubbed off; he’d grown to appreciate some of the more action-packed shows, at least. The bouncer interrupts his thoughts. “You the one come to fight, yes?” He pulls out a smartphone, glancing at the screen, where Brass catches a quick glimpse of his own face before the man slips it back into his pocket.

Stepping proudly into the glow of the flickering purple light, Brass confidently stated, "That's me, name's Brass; remember it!" At just over 6 feet tall, he possessed a well-defined physique with broad shoulders, a sculpted chest, and muscular arms. His athletic build, extending even to his trunk-like legs, was a point of pride for him. It allowed him to compete alongside the more attractive men of his generation, despite his rugged features and sunken eyes, and granted him strength enough to turn more than your average weightlifter green with envy. The bouncer seemed suitably impressed, only standing about 5'5" he had to look up to meet Brass's eyes.

"Good, come," the bouncer gestured for Brass to follow him towards the back entrance of the club.

As they entered, he was hit with a wave of smoke and loud music that seemed to shake the entire building. The club was dimly lit with neon lights flashing in every direction, casting colorful shadows on the dancing crowd. He could feel the thumping bass reverberating in his chest as he made his way through the crowd, following the bouncer to a secluded corner of the club.

Sitting in a booth was a man who looked to be in his late forties, with a grizzled face and cold eyes that seemed to calculate the risk to profit ratio Brass may present. He wore a sleek black suit and had a stern look on his face as he sized Brass up. "So, you're my newest cut of fresh meat, hm?"

The man spoke in a deep, gravelly voice. Brass nodded, his nerves starting to kick in as he realized the gravity of the situation. He was about to fight in an underground brawling ring. It was the reason he had come to Japan in the first place.

Brass recalls how Nina reacted when he told her he’d be going to Japan while she stayed back in Dallas. Her discontent was obvious, but he could live with that as long as she stayed safely under the watch of his allies back home. This wasn’t a trip for leisure; he’d come here to face opponents who wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it took to win. His sponsors’ rivals were relentless, willing to go to any lengths to secure victory. These weren’t just casual fights—these were high-stakes battles where corporations wagered millions, trade deals, even entire sectors of their businesses. He smirks at the memory of Nina’s annoyance, but it quickly fades as he forces himself back to the present, listening in as the man continues.

“You know the rules: no holds barred, last man standing wins,” their eyes locked intently. Brass takes a deep breath, readying himself for the fight ahead. He might not have been a veteran of the underground scene, but he was here to prove himself in this strange new world. Honestly, it was really a stroke of luck that he’d even decided to go to the gym that day, six months back.

He briefly recalled the frustration boiling up after that particular shift at the mill. It was his boss’s fault, really. The guys had been messing with the controls, speeding up the line so fast he could barely keep up. When he went to grab the next piece of metal off the rack, it hadn’t even cooled yet—burned right through half his glove before he tossed it aside. Perhaps dropping it calmly would have been the sensible thing to do, might’ve even kept him from getting fired; But the pain had him seeing red, and without thinking, he’d hurled it. The damn thing landed right on the control panel, caving the interface and melting several components. No surprise he got blamed for the mess.

Knowing Nina would question why he was home so early with five hours left on his shift, he decided to head to the one place he could really unwind. When he got there, it didn’t take long for his sparring buddy, Jack, to get the story out of him. Once he heard what happened, Jack mentioned a way for Brass to make some quick cash. All he had to do was collect money that someone owed Jack, and he’d get a cut. So he went ahead, gave the guy a scare, and got the money, thinking it would be a one-time favor. He soon learned that his training buddy was actually a bookie—one that needed someone like Brass to help keep things in order.

Things had spiraled so quickly since then, and now here he was in Japan, about to fight on behalf of Jack’s father, Sasaki Dai. In this bout Dai’s company was facing off against a Russian rival, with shares on the line to determine if a merger would go through between Toki-shia, one of the largest corporations in Tokyo, and Dai’s company.

“You gonna be the officiator?” Brass asks, eyeing the man in front of him. who in response lets out a light chuckle, a low, casual sound. "You could say that,” he replies, gesturing loosely around the room. “This is my club. Call me Chikara. If any problems arise… well, let’s just say you’d better hope they aren’t on your end.” His words carry a weight that makes it clear he’s not one to be crossed.

Brass shrugs "I'm ready, can we just get a move on?"

He came off sounding unconcerned, surprising himself. The truth was that his heart was pounding and a cold sweat had broken out on the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the warm air in the club. Chikara raises an eyebrow, amused. “Impatient, huh? All you fighters seem to be. Your competition’s already waiting upstairs. Follow me.” He signals to the bouncer, who turns and vanishes into the crowd, before heading toward a staircase at the back of the room.

Brass falls in behind the man without hesitation. The music’s beat, combined with his own nerves, makes his heart hammer as they ascend. At the top, they step out onto a balcony overlooking the packed dance floor below, where the music pulses in sync with the buzz of the crowd. Chikara leads them to a set of elevators, pulls out a key, and slides it into a discreet panel before pressing the button. They both step back, waiting in silence as the elevator lights up, ready to take them.

As Chikara steps into the elevator, Brass follows, and the doors close. The elevator ascends automatically, no button pressed. A tense silence fills the small space until Chikara speaks, his tone as casual as before.“I must say, I’m quite glad you have a little sister. Makes things much easier.”

A chill runs through Brass, a lump forming in his throat as he instinctively realizes where this conversation is heading. Chikara continues, almost offhandedly.

“Of course, you leaving her behind did add a bit of expense on my end,” he says, waving a hand dismissively, “but nothing that puts a dent in the generous payment the Russians offered me.”

Rage boils in Brass’s gut as he clenches his fists, barely keeping his composure. “You better not say what I think you’re about to say,” he snarls, voice low and threatening as he steps closer, towering over the shorter man. Chikara’s smile never falters. “Now, now, no need to rush things. I’d hate for a sweet girl like Nina to find herself in… unfortunate company. You never know what could happen.” With that, he flips a phone from his pocket and tosses it to Brass, who barely catches it, half expecting a weapon instead.

Brass turns the phone over in his hand and swipes the screen, finding it unlocked. The image staring back at him chills him to the bone—a profile on an escort website, featuring none other than his sister, Nina. She’s wearing a forced smile, but the fear in her eyes is unmistakable. She’s in a tight grip, pressed against none other than the bouncer who had led him into the club, who leans in close for a twisted selfie.

Rage surges through him, and before he can think, his fist slams into the elevator wall with a shattering crunch, inches from Chikara’s head. The impact jars his arm, sending a sharp pain up his shoulder, but he barely notices as he roars, “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

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Chikara only smirks, calm and composed, and Brass suddenly feels the cold press of a gun barrel against his stomach. “I warned you not to act rashly,” Chikara says, still infuriatingly unfazed. He reaches over and slams the emergency stop button, causing the elevator to grind to a halt around the 28th floor. Brass stumbles as the elevator jerks, his mind reeling.

“Now, I’m going to tell you exactly how this is going to go,” Chikara continues, his tone unyielding. “Once those doors open, you’re going to act like everything is just fine. You’ll fight like you mean it, but you’re going to lose. Make it look close, keep it convincing. This thing’s going live, and we can’t have the other companies suspecting a thing.”

Brass barely hears him over the roaring in his ears. Memories rush forward, painful and unbidden. Their parents had died ten years ago when Nina was only seven. All because they couldn’t afford a new heater. That winter, they’d known the thing was faulty but had no choice—the freezing nights left them no other option. A carbon monoxide leak took them both while Nina was sleeping at a friend’s house. Brass, already living on his own by then, had stepped up. Since then, his little sister had been his only family, his responsibility. And this bastard thought he could use her to control him.

Forcing himself to take a breath, Brass clamps down on his rage, knowing he needs information if he’s going to get them out of this. “Where is she?” he growls, voice low with barely contained fury.

Chikara smirks, slipping his pistol back into a hidden holster. “Funny you should ask. I thought it was a shame you didn’t want her here to watch her big brother fight. So, she’s waiting for us upstairs. Just to remind you of exactly what’s on the line.”

Here? Brass’s head feels hazy, his anger clouding his thoughts. The elevator jolts as Chikara hits the button again, and they begin to ascend.

29… 30… 31…

In a flash, Brass makes up his mind and doesn’t wait another second. Digging his feet into the floor, he slides his right leg back for stability, leans into the left, and twists his waist, pulling his shoulder back, condensing every ounce of energy coiled within. He sends his fist flying, crashing into Chikara’s face in one powerful swing. Blood sprays from the broken nose as Brass pulls his fist back, switching stances in one fluid move.

A low grunt escapes him in satisfaction—it’s a solid hit. Blood drips down his opponents face, but Brass doesn’t stop. His left arm follows up with a series of jabs—one, two, three—each hit forcing Chikara’s body further into the metal wall of the elevator. The man’s nose is smashed, his cheeks bruised and cut, and the eye swollen as Brass grabs a fistful of his hair, yanking his head down hard. In a swift motion, Brass drives his knee up to meet it, the impact snapping Chikara’s jaw with a sickening crunch.

32…

Breathing heavily, Brass draws back just enough to line up a final hit. “And this one’s for my sister.” His right hook slams Chikara to the ground, leaving him crumpled and bloodied on the elevator floor. For a moment he stared dumbstruck at the unconscious man.

33... 34... 35...

With a start, Brass jumps into action, noticing the top floor is fast approaching. He squats down, grabbing the gun from Chikara’s holster. A TT-30. Not bad, he thinks wryly. Old school, but reliable. Quickly sliding out the magazine, he checks the rounds. Eight shots, he counts, feeling a flash of gratitude for his Texan upbringing, where hitting the gun range on weekends with friends was a common practice.

36… 37…

He forces his breathing to slow, bringing his focus sharply back to the moment. Eight rounds, he reminds himself. He prefers rifles to handguns, but this will have to do. Depending on the number of people waiting on the other side, this could go bad fast. Luckily, he has the element of surprise, but that alone won’t win this fight. Get to Nina first, he thinks. Everything else is secondary.

38… 39… 40…

Ding the doors slide open, revealing the scene. The floor has an unfinished quality, a bare-bones setup with a dozen support pillars scattered around the room. About ten feet ahead sits a fighting ring, its size and position commanding the center of the space.

To the right, Brass spots the Russians: two businessmen in suits, flanking a fighter in boxing shorts and no shirt—a man who stands 6’4” and is built like a bear. Across from them is Brass’s own sponsor, Mr. Sasaki, a stout, athletic man with a lean, ruthless face. Dressed in a three-piece suit, Sasaki looks unfazed, calmly talking on his phone. Two guards stand by the pillars in front of him, and a camera crew is set up in the back, with additional cameras fixed along the ceiling.

None of this matters, though. What captures Brass’s attention, flooding his chest with both comfort and dread, is Nina. She stands in front of the ring, held by that damned bouncer gripping her elbow. Their eyes meet for a split second, and in that breath, he feels a torrent of relief that she’s okay. Almost enough to throw him off his game.

But he steels himself, raises the gun, and fires. A single shot takes down the guard on his left, and two more rounds slam into the guard on the right’s chest. The room erupts into chaos.

“Nina, get down!” Brass shouts, but her voice rings out too—“Brass, no!”

The Russian fighter drops, ducking behind cover as his handlers yell, reaching for their own weapons. Brass quickly fires two shots at them, then swivels his aim back to the bouncer, who now has a knife pressed to Nina’s throat, shouting at him in Japanese. Idiot, Brass thinks grimly. Like I understand a word.

Brass growled, advancing on the bouncer holding a knife to his sister’s throat. With quick aim, he fired at two men charging in from his left. The shots boomed in the confined space, leaving his ears ringing. Over the muffled din, he caught a few words from the bouncer.

“Stop, or else I—”

“YOU WILL FUCKING WHAT?” Brass roared, spinning the gun back to the bouncer’s face.

The Yakuza flinched but managed to stammer, “You don’t want anything to hap—” His words were cut short by Brass’s bullet tearing into his skull. As the shot echoed, Nina fell to her knees, crying. Brass rushed to her, ready to pull her to safety, when Mr. Sasaki’s voice broke through the noise.

“Get away, you idiot!” Sasaki shouted, pointing directly at Brass while reaching for a weapon in his holster.

Brass hesitated, thrown off by the old man’s reaction. Was Sasaki about to attack him, too? Then it hit him—the finger wasn’t aimed at him. Before he could react, a sudden, searing impact hit his back, right in the shoulder blade, driving him forward onto his knees.

A wave of nausea rolled over him as he struggled to focus. Turning, he glimpsed one of the Russians he thought he’d taken down, holding a gun. He’d been shot.

Nina rushed over, yelling something he couldn’t make out. His head was pounding, and it was as if he were underwater. Still, he gripped her around the waist with his good hand, forcing himself to stand. Nina pounded his shoulder, pleading with him, but all that mattered was getting her out. They could figure out the rest later.

Suddenly, a shot rang out. Brass braced, expecting another impact, but none came. He looked up to see Mr. Sasaki, gun in hand, standing over the Russian who had shot him—the man now dead on the ground.

A surge of satisfaction went through Brass—they were going to be okay. His sponsor might not be thrilled, but none of that mattered as long as they survived. His breath started to even out, a shaky smile beginning to form, when a sudden shout tore through the silence behind him.

He whipped around, eyes locking on Chikara, who stood near an open crate Brass hadn’t noticed before. The wooden top had been tossed aside, and in Chikara’s hands was a gun—a Type 100, Brass recognized with a detached clarity, its side-mounted magazine glinting under the dim bleary lights. For a split second, their eyes met, and Brass saw the cruel satisfaction flickering in Chikara’s gaze.

Brass didn’t wait. He spun on his heel and sprinted toward the elevator, desperation lending speed to his steps. But he was too slow. The gunfire shattered the air, a vicious staccato ripping through his body. Each bullet hit like a sledgehammer, driving the breath from his lungs. His vision swam, pain radiating in hot, pulsing waves through his torso and limbs as he crumpled to the cold, gritty floor.

He lay there, stunned, his senses dulled. Why was he on the ground? Everything felt thick, syrupy. It took him a moment to remember. Nina! With a jolt of panic, he forced his head up, his muscles screaming as he struggled to lift his upper body. Through his hazy vision, he saw legs. Legs…his thoughts drifted. Who…?

His gaze traveled upward, taking in the familiar shape, until he saw Nina lying a few feet away. Blood trickled from her mouth, staining her lips dark red, and her eyes stared ahead, wide and empty. A thin line of blood crept from her neck, merging with his own blood pooling beneath them. A heavy numbness settled over him as he stared, unable to make sense of what he was seeing. He felt his vision flickering, blackness tugging at the edges. No! Something raw and fierce burned to life inside him, drowning out the pain and confusion, boiling up into rage.

With a broken, animalistic roar, Brass staggered to his feet, his injuries forgotten, his mind ablaze with a single purpose. Adrenaline poured through him, sharpening his focus as he launched himself toward Chikara. The man’s eyes widened, the faintest flicker of fear appearing before Brass hit him like a runaway truck. They crashed together, colliding with the crate, sending wood and metal clattering across the floor.

Brass pulled himself up, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. His heartbeat thudded slower, heavier, as if each beat cost him something. His mind was a fog, but his fists remained clenched, fists brimming with fury. He didn’t think—he struck, again and again, the impact dulling his senses further, each punch a cathartic release of rage. Blood spattered his face, but he kept swinging until Chikara lay still, his face a grotesque ruin.

Brass swayed, his vision nearly gone, the room reduced to dim shapes and shadows. He blinked, trying to clear his sight, and saw Nina still lying on the ground, her face peaceful in the deathly stillness. His breath hitched, and as he turned his head, he realized Mr. Sasaki was standing over him. When had he gotten there?

Why was he on the ground again?

Mr. Sasaki’s voice drifted to him, distant and calm. “I’ll make sure you’re honored. That was incredible. These bastards thought they could mess with us. You did it, Brass. You did good, kid.”

With the last of his strength, Brass raised a trembling thumb in acknowledgment. “Remember it,” he murmured, his voice little more than a breath. With a final raspy shudder his heart beat no more.

A grin split Sasaki’s face, his eyes glinting as he looked down at the fighter who had fallen at his feet. “Incredible… it couldn’t have gone any better,” he said, his voice thick with triumph. He let out a laugh that echoed through the empty area, a harsh, gleeful sound that filled the silence left by the dying battle. He glanced around at the room littered with bodies, then pulled out his phone. After a single ring, a female voice answered on the other end, “Yes, Mr. Sasaki?”

“Send a full cleanup team,” he said, still grinning. “Oh, and a disposal crew.” His gaze shifted to a few members of the camera crew, who were huddled in terror on the other side of the room. He chuckled softly. “Just a few more loose ends.”