A shadow on the sun

Chapter 2

The morning light filtered through the grime-streaked window, casting a pale, sickly glow over the small room. Cain woke up to the dull ache that had settled deep in his bones, a familiar companion after years of street fighting.

His body protested as he pushed himself upright, his muscles stiff from the previous night's battle. Sleep had done little to ease his pain, and the thin mattress had offered even less comfort. But comfort was a luxury Cain couldn't afford to think about.

He glanced at the clock on the wall—a battered, old thing with a cracked face that he had found in a dumpster months ago. It read 6:23 AM. Cain sighed and swung his legs over the side of the mattress, his feet hitting the cold, unforgiving floor. The day was starting, whether he was ready for it or not.

His morning routine was as basic as his surroundings. He washed his face in the tiny, rusted sink in the corner, the water icy cold and the faucet sputtering with each turn. The mirror above the sink was cracked, distorting his reflection into a fragmented version of himself. He stared at the pieces of his face for a moment—green eyes hollow, hair unkempt, stubble growing in uneven patches—before turning away. There was no point in lingering.

Cain's breakfast consisted of a few stale pieces of bread and a can of beans, the remnants of his last grocery run. He ate quickly, not out of hunger, but out of necessity. Food was fuel, nothing more. His mind was already on the day ahead, on the fight he had lined up for that evening.

He dressed in his usual attire—a pair of worn jeans, a faded black t-shirt, and a heavy jacket that had seen better days. The bandages around his knuckles were replaced with fresh ones, his morning ritual. Once he was ready, he grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and left the apartment without a second glance.

The city was just beginning to wake up as Cain stepped outside, the streets still quiet in the early morning light. He moved with purpose, his pace steady and unhurried. There was no need to rush; the day was long, and the fight was hours away. But every step he took, every breath he drew, was filled with a growing sense of anticipation. He needed this fight. He needed to feel the impact of his fists against another's flesh, to hear the sound of bone cracking beneath his blows. It was the only thing that made him feel alive anymore.

As the day wore on, Cain kept to himself, moving through the city like a shadow. He avoided the usual places—the markets, the squares, the busy streets. Instead, he wandered through the back alleys and side streets, places where the sun barely touched and the shadows were deep. It was in these forgotten corners of the city that he felt most at home, where he could lose himself in his thoughts and let the world pass him by.

When evening finally came, Cain made his way to the underground fight venue, his heart beating a little faster with each step. The fight today was supposed to be a simple one—a newcomer to the circuit, someone looking to make a name for himself. Cain had fought countless newcomers before, had broken them down and sent them home with shattered dreams and broken bones. This one would be no different. Or so he thought.

The venue was a dark, cramped basement beneath an old warehouse, the air thick with the stench of sweat and blood. The crowd was already gathered, their faces a blur of excitement and anticipation. The ring, a simple square of concrete with makeshift ropes strung around it, stood in the center, waiting for the violence to begin.

Cain stepped into the ring, his face expressionless, his mind focused on the task ahead. His opponent was already there—a tall, lean man with a cocky grin and eyes that gleamed with confidence. He was younger than Cain, maybe a year or two, with a build that suggested speed and agility. But Cain wasn't worried. He had faced all kinds before and had always come out on top.