Chapter 1 - Bloody Cold

—Because nothing says self-love like getting your face punched for cash.

The basement reeked of iron, mold, and despair—the holy trinity of underground cage fighting.

Somewhere above ground, people were probably enjoying overpriced ramen or kissing under cherry blossoms. Down here? We were all just rats. No, not even rats. Rats have the decency to run away from danger. The people here ran toward it, screaming for blood like modern-day gladiator fetishists.

I stood in the center of a rusted metal ring surrounded by a mesh cage. It looked like someone threw a dog kennel and a prison cell together and called it a sport.

Across from me was a man who looked like he ate steroids for breakfast and washed them down with broken glass. His fists were the size of small planets. His nose was crooked like it had been broken one too many times—or maybe just once, really badly. Probably by someone like me.

The bell rang.

He charged. Of course he did. That’s what guys like him do—run forward and hope their biceps solve everything.

I stepped to the side.

His fist cut air.

My elbow didn't.

It slammed into his ribs. He grunted, turned, swung again.

Repeat.

Dodge. Counter. Pain. Silence.

I didn’t think. I didn’t need to think. My body moved because it was trained to. Because this was the one place where silence was allowed. No one asked questions down here. You fought. You bled. You went home with enough money to pretend you weren’t a disposable piece of meat.

His jaw opened to scream something—probably “You’re dead!” or “I’m gonna rip you in half!” or maybe “I love you!” Honestly, who cares?

I punched him in the throat before he could finish the sentence.

He stumbled, eyes wide. I didn’t stop. Never do.

Three punches later, he collapsed.

One final right hook—and the sound it made was like someone dropping a watermelon from a rooftop.

Thud.

Silence.

Then—

Screams.

“YEAAAHHH!”

“KAZUKI! KAZUKIIII!”

“HE FREAKING KILLED HIM! AGAIN!”

Money rained down like it meant something. Cheers. Chants. A girl screamed “MARRY ME” from the sidelines.

Cute. She probably wouldn’t like me if I told her I don’t do relationships. Or emotions. Or people.

I didn’t raise my arms. Didn’t gloat. Didn’t even glance at the crowd.

Because none of this mattered.

I didn’t fight to prove something. I fought because the rent doesn’t pay itself and the world doesn’t stop kicking you just because you cry about it.

Jin, my so-called manager, gave me a thumbs up from the corner. He wore a black trench coat indoors like some mafia reject and smoked like he was in a 90s noir film. He didn’t smile. Good. I didn’t either.

I walked out of the cage as the announcer shouted my name like it was some kind of victory.

Kazuki Hayama.

Thirty-seven wins. No losses. No cheers. Just bruises.

They called me The Ice Blade.

Which was funny, because I felt more like an empty soda can—kicked around, dented, and hollow.

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The alley outside was colder than usual. A sharp wind cut across my jacket as I walked the broken streets of East Tenjiku. My hands throbbed, skin peeling around the knuckles. Blood still leaked out of a split on my index finger. I stuck it in my mouth and tasted copper.

Delicious. A gourmet treat from the Understreet.

The city above lived in neon lies and fake laughs. Down here, it was honest. Ugly, but honest. Every broken pipe and rusted sign told you the truth.

I walked alone, as always.

My apartment was a 20-minute walk away. Long enough for my legs to ache, short enough to question why I even bothered going home.

Then I heard it.

Piano.

Soft. Off-key. Imperfect. Real.

I stopped.

It came from the alley ahead. Somewhere between the dumpsters and the rotting billboard of a failed idol group, someone was… playing music?

Down here?

I stepped closer, just enough to see the outline.

A girl.

White sweater. Tattered skirt. Fingers dancing over a rusted keyboard.

Eyes closed. No—not closed. Blindfolded. No—blind.

Her fingers moved with strange grace, like she wasn’t playing the piano but remembering it.

She didn’t see me. She didn’t even know I was watching.

The melody wasn’t amazing. It was hesitant. Awkward. Broken in places. Like it was trying to find its voice.

But it was… warm.

And I hated it.

Because in this place—this hellhole of concrete and violence—there wasn’t supposed to be warmth.

And yet, there she was.

Playing music to no one.

As if someone might listen.

I stared for a few seconds longer than I should have. My chest tightened, unfamiliar.

Then I turned and walked away.

Because whatever that was…

It wasn’t mine to touch.

And besides…

People like her don’t belong in the understreet.

People like me never leave it.

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