008 Not Fight Club

A room shrouded in black behind one single curtain is something that's alien to you sometimes after you come back from something. Whether that be school, work, or training. The kind of darkness that makes you forget time, makes you question if you've entered a different world altogether—one where shadows stretch longer, and silence has a tangible weight.

I take out a beaten laptop from a sleeve, its metal scratched and dulled, keys worn smooth from relentless typing. The familiar hum of the machine boots up, the dim glow from the screen casting blue light across my face. It feels like an old friend, the kind that knows all your secrets and says nothing. What do I do now?

"Essence, draw."

[Drawn Items:

Skill - Immunohematology (Bloody hell!)

Template - James Gordon (Normal man.)

Item - AK-308 (Decent gun.)

Item - Liuyedao (Willow-leaf sabre)

Template - 004 (Mercenary Enrollment)

Item - Medkit

Template - Helmut Zemo (Genius)

Item - Nissan 370z

Item - Blanket

Item - The Art of Thinking Clearly]

I feel my lips curve into a smile. It's that kind of smile that comes when you're standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down at the abyss, and thinking, maybe, just maybe, I'll jump. And everything stops being an out-of-body experience. This is real. I'm here. No more drifting.

Sweat drips onto the rubber-matted floor, dark spots forming beneath me like a small storm. I'm sparring with a grizzled, bearded man with squared features—his face looks like it's been carved from stone, every wrinkle etched in by years of battle. We exchange kicks and jabs, the sounds of flesh meeting flesh echoing, reverberating throughout the gym like a drumbeat in the deep. Each strike is a question, each block a response. It's a conversation, a dialogue in violence, a language we both understand.

It ends with a quick strike—my shin connects with his calf, and he bends over fast, a sharp intake of breath like a hiss through clenched teeth. It reminds me of that fight in Gangbuk. The one that left me staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was it. No matter.

He picks himself up again. Resilience. That's what this game is about. Who can keep getting up? Who can take more?

I lunge for a fast left, a punch aimed at the side of his head. He counters under my shoulder, a quick, fluid movement that speaks of experience. His eyes know. They know I'm going to inch to the side and kick, so he slides after the reach.

That didn't count.

He hits me, straight on, a punch that feels like a battering ram slamming into my solar plexus. The air is knocked out of me, and I fall back against the cold, unfeeling wall. The kind of wall that doesn't care if you're alive or dead. We both sit down for a bit, him rubbing down his leg, me pressing a hand to my chest, feeling the dull throb of pain. A reminder that a week ago, this wouldn't be a regular thing. A reminder that today we'd gotten an inch closer to somewhere we'd never been. And like the bear and the lemming in those old cartoons, we wanted to test how much more we could take.

The Gordon template came in useful—battle experience can always beat talent in a real fight. That's something I've learned the hard way. Talent is a gift, but experience? That's earned. And it's earned in blood.

Nothing was solved after the fight. But nothing mattered. Either way, we have to go again.

The first night we fought was out in the gym, the cold night air biting at our skin. And I asked him to hit me. He hit me, and after that, I hit him. We fought sloppily, like amateurs in their first dance, tripping over our own feet. With my weak body, there was no way my kicks were going to do anything.

I asked him what he was thinking during the fight. He thought that I was crazy. That he shouldn't hit a kid. In the end, he said that when he fought, he was fighting against the world. Against his bullshit job, against his haunted, broken dreams, against his ex and shitty parents. Against himself.

I said to him, maybe we shouldn't be fighting against ourselves. His breakup was up to him, but whether or not his ex was a good person for him wasn't. The fight signified just that. In there, you've no control over how the opponent will hit you. But it's up to you whether or not you'll come back up.

For the next couple of weeks, that run-down gym slowly filled up with guys in the middle of the night. The old men and the delinquents left by then, so it was prime time. We even let the owner in on the joke.

Fight Club's other rendition. But I have no plans of having them fight against major corporations. I'll have them fight for me. I was a part of one once. I didn't get into Project Mayhem, though. That's where I drew the line.

A dimly lit warehouse, the kind where incandescent lights buzz and flicker above cracked walls. The place smells of rusted iron, sweat, and leather, weary with the careful footsteps of a fight the night before. Every time I'm here, I cycle through the rules for the newbies. I'm planning to take care of some gangs with this amount of people in a week.

First rule. Do not talk about Kaisen.

Second rule. Do not talk about Kaisen. Fight club only exists in the hours fight club is happening.

The chest-puffed salarymen look upon me with proud eyes and anticipation. The fresh meat raises their eyebrows, trying to hide the fear that gnaws at their insides.

Third rule. Someone yells stop, goes limp, passes out, the fight is over.

Tyler's words coming out of my mouth. Like a ghost speaking through me, a phantom echo.

Fourth rule. Only two guys to a fight.

Fifth rule. Two fights at a time.

Sixth rule. No shirts, no shoes.

Some newbies take off their black shoes and their blazers, folding them neatly on the side as if they're at some twisted version of a gym class.

Seventh rule. Fights will go on as long as they have to.

Eighth rule. If this is your first night in Kaisen, you have to fight.

For some guys, this is their everything. It used to be enough that their idol of choice would release a new song, or their favorite doujinshi would upload a new chapter. They could clean their condo. They could watch the next baseball game. Drink the next beer. Someday, their tendonitis will get to them, and they'll lose their job. At least there's a clean condo. Someday, they'll die without any scars, without any loved ones on their deathbed. Really, really nice condo, until the dust settles in, or the black mold enters uninvited, or the next young, aspiring salaryman—an aspiring model unit of society—will get their hopes crushed by Japanese work ethics and societal norms and live in a condo where at least three people have died without ever knowing the embrace of a woman or the white life of fulfillment.

Japanese black companies are truly evil. Nothing is static.

Ever since Kaisen, these salarymen and bullied high schoolers have led truly better lives. After you've been to Kaisen, watching a baseball game or supporting an idol in spirit becomes worthless. It's masturbation. It's watching pornography when you could be out there experiencing the real thing.

Maybe that meek kid you saw in that substation gets picked on by nearby delinquents. After Kaisen, you could barely stop yourself from telling him what a great fight he had when he thrashed down the local convenience store employee.

Two men raise their arms for a fight. One skinny accountant, and one grizzled, chubby mechanic.

Skinny guys fight til they're burger. Chubby guys hit harder than them, though.

Like one from a wild west movie, the chubby guy goes for a lazy haymaker. The skinny guy inches back and strikes him beside his neck. Fatman bends, but he counters. Littleboy bends, but he doesn't tap. He gets up from the hit, and they're back to circling each other.

The eight dozen men cheer in laughter and yell with each other, reveling in the inherent chaos and sheer loudness present in the vestibule. No one hears the noise from outside.

They exchange a few hits—low kicks, jabs, crosses. Slowly but surely, the skinny guy is losing speed. In the end, the mechanic tackles him, but the skinny guy slips out of the way. A full nelson, a rear-naked chokehold around the guy's neck. He holds him by the double chin and makes him tap out from the fingers akin to bee stings.

The crowd erupts into a frenzy, a chaotic symphony of fists pounding on the walls, feet stomping on the ground. And for a moment, everything fades—the world outside, the noise, the chaos. It's just me and them. My army.

---

Give me power stones. I need popularity because I am a vain person. A person capable of writing nonetheless.