Ghost Boxer

In the depths of a dimly lit tunnel, barely illuminated by a solitary flashlight, a figure cautiously ventured forward. The air was thick with an eerie ambiance, and the damp walls were covered in a layer of suffocating moss. Sinister droplets leaked from the ceiling, adding to the unsettling atmosphere that permeated the place. The livestream, with a meager viewer count of only 34, depicted this chilling scene.

"Now, guys, we find ourselves in a location that must remain nameless for the sake of everyone's safety," the person behind the camera whispered, their voice tinged with trepidation. They knew the implications of their words and the danger that lurked within these haunted confines.

The stream reads: SUS and So we cannot search on this place if its fake or not.

The beam of the flashlight moved slowly, casting a feeble glow that danced eerily upon the decaying walls. Each step the person took was a tentative one, their fear palpable even through the digital lens, yet, they pressed on.

"I need to show the world what truly lies within," the streamer muttered, their voice quivering. Their determination clashed with their overwhelming sense of terror, creating a precarious balance as they trudged deeper into the darkness.

Abruptly, the flashlight flickered and died, plunging the tunnel into an inky blackness. Panic-stricken, heavy breaths echoed through the stream, and the streamer fumbled with the flashlight, desperately trying to reignite its feeble glow.

The stream read: "I just saw him turn it off himself."

The light abruptly returned, illuminating the streamer's trembling figure. They seemed like a leaf caught in a tempest, shaken to their core.

The silence in the room was shattered by a chilling cacophony, a deranged symphony of demonic laughter that seemed to emanate from every corner of the tunnel. The owner clutched his head, his hands trembling violently, as if trying to block out the haunting sounds that echoed in his ears. His senses were assaulted, the distorted laughter reverberating through his very being, infiltrating the deepest recesses of his troubled mind.

"These are his tactics—to terrify you," the streamer declared, their voice wavering. "But I won't succumb to fear. I urge you all, whether religious or not, to find solace in prayer. It will anchor your spirit and keep you calm."

Suddenly, a profound silence settled upon the place, drowning out any residual sounds of the streamer's heavy breathing. Its oppressive weight was almost more disturbing than the cacophony before.

The stream displayed a comment: "Nice effects!"

Frozen in place, the streamer shook uncontrollably, the phone trembling in their hands. Suddenly, a haunting echo of footsteps resounded from behind them, their presence unmistakable. A sense of dread seized the streamer, paralyzing their every muscle. Slowly, they turned, their trembling flashlight revealing a fleeting glimpse of a shadowy figure before the phone slipped from their grasp. The stream captured only the panicked sounds of running and screaming, until it abruptly ceased—an unearthly stillness reclaimed the tunnel.

The stream chat buzzed with skepticism: "Cliché! I'm out." "What a waste of time." "That was just a guy in a costume!"

One by one, the viewer count dwindled until only a single person remained, their presence lingering briefly before they, too, departed, leaving the counter at zero.

****

In a small, family-owned restaurant, the atmosphere was eerily quiet, save for the persistent sound of a man in his late twenties voraciously slurping noodles at a table. He was the only costumer in the restaurant.

His attire, a sharp suit perfectly tailored to his form, paired with a glistening golden watch, and sunglasses that remained firmly perched on his face, even in the dimly lit evening, exuded the aura of a successful businessman. However, it was the glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from under his shirt sleeve that whispered a different tale.

The owner, who stood behind the counter, his eyes fixed upon the man with a mixture of terror and disgust. The owner knew all too well the nefarious reputation that preceded these kinda individuals. A sense of dread overcame him as their gazes collided, and at that moment, the man paused, chopsticks held halfway to his mouth.

"It's absolutely delicious. Please convey my compliments to the chef," the man in the suit calmly remarked, his voice carrying a sense of authority and underlying threat. The owner, overwhelmed by fear, instinctively ducked behind the counter, his heart pounding in his chest.

Suddenly, the front door swung open with a forceful slam, and four young men stormed into the restaurant. The leader of the group stepped forward, his gaze scanning the empty establishment. "Where is he?" he demanded, his frustration evident in his tone.

"Look around, you moron. There's only one customer here," the owner retorted, his voice laced with a hint of apprehension.

The leader's eyes locked onto the man in the suit, who continued to savor his meal undisturbed, seemingly oblivious to the unfolding confrontation.

"He said he came for the protection money because there's a new gang claiming this territory," the owner explained, his voice quivering with a mixture of fear and confusion. "But I told him that we already paid the previous gang this month."

"Don't worry, Pa', I've got this," the young man confidently asserted, stepping forward, determined to confront the imposing figure seated at the table.

As the man in the suit leisurely finished his noodles, the young man closed the distance between them. "Who the fuck do you think—" he began to say, his voice dripping with aggression, but his words were abruptly halted when the man pushed his chair back with a loud screech, rising to his feet in a swift and calculated motion.

The man positioned himself in front of the table, bowing slightly. "My name is Tarik Mato. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," he stated with an air of detached formality. "I look forward to working with you."

The young man, caught off guard by this unexpected display of manners, hesitated for a moment, his instinct to reciprocate the gesture momentarily overriding his hostility. But as reality settled in, he straightened himself and sneered, "Yo, I asked you—" before he could finish his sentence, Tarik removed his suit jacket and carefully folded it, placing it neatly on the back of the chair. He then adjusted his tie and rolled up his sleeves, revealing a network of intricate tattoos that snaked across his arms.

"Now, do you understand the urgency of settling the debt?" Tarik inquired, a flickering lighter in his hand. He effortlessly ignited the cigarette that dangled from his lips, the flame casting an eerie glow upon his face. "Or must I resort to more drastic measures, such as reducing this place to ashes?"

As Tarik flicked open his lighter, the flame danced in the dimly lit room, casting flickering shadows on the worn-out furniture. He raised an eyebrow and casually asked, "Now do you have the money?" The cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, its tip glowing brightly as he took a long drag, the smoke curling upwards in wisps. "Or do I need to put this place on fire?"

A sense of tension hung in the air, thick with the unspoken threat. The young man's face contorted with anger as he shouted, "Get him, boys!" Instantly, his friends closed in on Tarik, forming a menacing circle around him, their eyes gleaming with anticipation of the impending brawl.

Tarik maintained his composure, exhaling a cloud of smoke with a calculated calmness. At that moment, his mind raced, evaluating the situation. 'Rule no. 1: If you find yourself against many enemies, run. But I don't have the luxury of it now.'

With a deep breath, Tarik assumed a boxer's stance, his feet firmly planted, ready to defend himself against the oncoming assault. He flicked the lit cigarette towards one of the attackers, its ember briefly illuminating the grim expressions on their faces. Swiftly, he struck out with a well-aimed punch to his chin. The sound of breaking bone echoed through the room as the attacker crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Tarik seized the opportunity to position himself within the gap he had created, a calculated move to control the flow of the fight. His mind recalled 'Rule no. 2: Lessen the herd with only one attack, because most of the time, that's all you'll have.'

His instincts took over as another assailant rushed forward, a wild swing aimed at Tarik's head. With a fluid motion, he deftly dodged the punch, a fraction of an inch separating his face from harm's way. In response, he unleashed a devastating blow to the attacker's gut, causing him to crumple in agony, struggling for breath.

'A gut punch can even hospitalize a man, but at least he is out of the fight for a couple of minutes. That's why boxers train their abdomen to be able to take punches. For a normal man, one is more than enough.'

As the remaining two attackers hesitated, shock written across their faces,

'Now the realization kicks in that they had no chance to win the fight even when they were four against one. And now there are only two.'

The wiser of the two made a split-second decision and bolted towards the door, desperate to escape the merciless retribution that awaited. Tarik's eyes narrowed with determination.

'I can't let them escape, so the message is clear. You have no other chance than to pay.'

Grabbing a nearby chair, Tarik hurled it after the escaping man. The chair shattered upon impact, crashing against his back, sending him sprawling to the floor. Tarik advanced, his gaze fixed on the fallen man, his voice laced with an unforgiving resolve. "Leg or arm?" he asked.

Fear and confusion danced in the eyes of the man sprawled on the floor. "What?" he stammered, struggling to comprehend the question amidst the pain.

Tarik sighed inwardly, aware that time was not on his side. "It usually takes a couple of minutes to grasp the true meaning," he mused, "but I don't have the luxury of time when I still have another opponent."

Without hesitation, Tarik stomped on the man's leg, delivering a brutal blow that snapped bone and elicited an anguished scream of pain. The man writhed on the floor, his agony now tangible.

Tarik's gaze narrowed as he locked eyes with the owner's son, who defiantly brandished a gleaming knife in his trembling hand. The room fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the faint flicker of the overhead light.

His voice filled with a mix of disappointment and reprimand, Tarik questioned the son, "Where is your honor? We agreed, non-verbally, to engage in a fair fistfight." His words hung in the air, laced with a subtle undercurrent of disbelief.

Summoning the remnants of his courage, the son unleashed a war cry of expletives, his voice filled with a desperate determination. "F*ck you!"

Tarik's mind shifted gears, adapting his tactics to the presence of a deadly weapon.

'When you fight a man with a knife, you only need to adjust your tactic like you were fighting an opponent with a longer arm, and you need to dodge every attack of this arm.'

His legs moved with the fluidity of a seasoned boxer, the dance of his footwork mirroring the movements of a skilled pugilist in the ring. He remained rooted in place, a statue of calm amidst the storm, awaiting the imminent attack. As the son lunged forward, his knife aimed at Tarik's vulnerable gut, Tarik's instincts kicked in.

In a blur of motion, he sidestepped to the right, narrowly avoiding the lethal blade. In the same swift instant, Tarik launched a devastating left uppercut, its trajectory aligning perfectly with the son's exposed jaw. The impact was jarring, the force of the blow causing the son's teeth to crash together, severing the tip of his own tongue.

Tarik took a step back, confident that his opponent was incapacitated. Yet, to his astonishment, the owner's son rose to his feet.

'Now that hit would be enough to stop a bull, so why is he stood up? That's the adrenaline kicking in and making the pain delayed for the person. A built-in mechanics into humans to have a better chance to survive.'

Driven by desperation, the son swung the knife wildly, his movements growing more erratic by the second. Tarik expertly maintained his distance, his evasive maneuvers denying any opportunity for his opponent to strike.

The son's frenzied assault eventually ceased, his labored breaths filling the room.

'He finally has exhausted himself,' Tarik thought, recognizing the signs of fatigue and the waning effects of adrenaline. With unwavering resolve, he lunged forward, seizing the opportunity presented before him. The son had only a fraction of a moment to raise his hands in a futile attempt to shield his face.

Tarik initiated his assault with a swift punch to the gut, causing the son's defenses to falter. Sensing the opening, he unleashed a rapid combination of blows. A lightning-quick left jab found its mark, momentarily blinding the son and leaving him disoriented. Before he could regain his bearings, Tarik's right hook, honed through years of training, descended upon him.

Every ounce of Tarik's strength and skill fueled the powerful punch. It was a symphony of coordinated movement—a step backward, a twist originating from his heels, surging through his hips and cascading into his shoulder. The devastating blow connected with bone-crushing impact, launching the son through the air like a ragdoll. The sound of his body colliding with a nearby cabinet reverberated through the room, shattering the silence.

Tarik took a moment to collect himself. The once disheveled state of his appearance served as a stark contrast to the composed figure he now presented. He walked towards the chair, its wooden frame bearing the weight of his meticulously tailored suit, and carefully picked it up. As he slid each arm into the sleeves, the fabric seemed to mold effortlessly to his form, accentuating his physique with its sleek contours.

He turned to face the owner, who stood frozen behind the counter, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. It was a sight that would forever be etched in his memory—an indelible testament to the consequences of crossing paths with Tarik.

"Now, about that payment..." Tarik's voice trailed off, interrupted by the jarring ring of his phone. He glanced at the screen, briefly acknowledging the call before answering with a nod of acknowledgment.

"Yes?" he spoke, his tone betraying no trace of the turmoil that had just unfolded. After a momentary pause, he continued, his voice steady and composed, "I will be there right away."

The owner opened the register and gathered all the bills inside with a shaky hand. He held out the money in his hand, but Tarik was already nowhere to be found.