James smelled faintly of bleach, but the metallic tang of blood still clung to his clothes. His apartment was spotless—no bodies, no pools of red—just the lingering echoes of violence.
The coffee table was destroyed, two bullet holes pockmarked the walls. A reminder that, no matter how much he scrubbed, the past few hours wouldn't just vanish.
Not that it mattered.
The Irish knew where he lived. When their friends didn't check in, they wouldn't send another three men—they'd send a dozen.
He sighed, moving through the apartment quickly, grabbing anything worth keeping. His more expensive things vanished into his inventory—his best kitchen knives, his favorite pan, even his cutlery and couch. It was stupid, maybe, but if he was leaving everything else behind, at least he'd have the things he actually liked.
As he made his way through his home, he eventually stepped onto the scale in his bathroom.
173 Lbs.
He hummed, the weigh in was tomorrow, 3lbs of water weight would be easy to lose. When he won, that'd be a small payout, enough to keep him afloat for a little longer. Not like he had much left from his parents' money anyway.
They'd died about a year back in the Battle of New York, the government gave him a monthly check, every victim of the attack was given some form of compensation.
He'd remembered actually seeing Captain America that very day—standing there in his bright, red, white, and blue suit. The stars and stripes plastered across his chest were almost too much, like some over-the-top, patriotic display.
But even with the cheesy costume, there was something about him—something real. He moved like he belonged in the chaos, like he could take on the entire city and still walk out the other side.
James had always been a fan of the man, ever since he was young. It was partly the reason he started boxing to begin with and definitely the reason he first hit the gym.
Walking into his bedroom, he pulled up his mattress with ease, revealing the familiar rolled-up poster he'd tucked away. It was worn at the edges, but the image of Cap was just as vivid in his mind as it had been the first time he'd seen it.
He grabbed it, letting his mattress slam back down with a thud. For a moment, he just stared at the poster—his father had given it to him. Captain America standing tall, chest out, head held high.
A sigh escaped his lips as he shook his head, carefully placing the poster into his inventory. He'd practically packed everything he needed, his clothes, his kitchenware, his sentimental items…
With a thought, he opened his system. The skill he'd unlocked from his earlier encounter flashed before his eyes.
Dash Mastery (Level One)
Grants the user the ability to perform a burst of speed in a straight line, propelling them forward with extreme velocity. 15-25 Feet.
Equip
Exit
He eyed the Equip tab in slight surprise. This wasn't an implant, was it? He hummed, tapping the tab cautiously.
The moment he did, a sharp, burning pain shot up from the back of his calves. He winced, barely managing to keep his balance as the sensation surged through him. His breath caught in his throat, and he almost dropped to his knees.
But then, as quickly as it had come, the pain stopped, leaving only a faint, hissing sound behind it.
James looked down at his calves, brows furrowed in confusion. There, almost too small to notice unless you were looking closely, were tiny holes, just barely visible.
He thought about the skill again, and without warning, it activated—his body jerked forward, hurtling across the room in a blur. He slammed into the wall with a sickening thud, the impact jarring his bones.
A sharp hiss escaped him as he pushed himself off the wall, wincing. Despite the pain, a small grin tugged at the corner of his lips. He glanced back at the spot he'd been standing just moments ago, a spark of excitement flickering in his chest.
That was so cool.
—-
The gym was alive with the sharp sound of gloves hitting punching bags, the rhythmic thud of feet shuffling on the worn mats, and the occasional shout from a coach as a fighter missed a punch.
The heavy scent of sweat and leather hung thick in the air, mixing with the faint smell of disinfectant, keeping the place from smelling too stale.
Victor's gaze was sharp as James stepped onto the scales.
171.
Victor hummed. "Good. Start sweating that out now, weigh-ins in two hours." James sighed, his eyes going back to the lonely rowing machine in the far corner of the gym.
It wasn't that bad, but god cardio was boring he thought to himself as he trudged over to the machine.
—-
He stepped onto the large, professional scale in front of a judge, who watched the numbers lazily while scribbling in a notepad.
The number settled, and the judge nodded, jotting something down.
"169.6 lbs!" the judge called out to another, then turned back to a visibly relieved James. "Okay, time for the testing."
Congratulations! Mission Accomplished!
Reward - 500 EXP!
James hummed, ignoring the pop-up as he followed the judge to a back room. He grabbed a bottle of water along the way—couldn't exactly piss in a cup when he was dehydrated.
And it took a while but eventually gave them the sample they needed. They wouldn't have the results for 24 hours, so he'd figure out if he passed the day of the fight.
Victor suddenly approached, his footsteps hurried, brows furrowed. James couldn't help but feel a flicker of worry at seeing the older man like that.
"Vic?" James asked, confusion and unease creeping into his voice. Victor didn't waste any time with pleasantries.
"Your opponent pulled out," he said, his words making James' stomach drop. His eyes went wide, and a rush of frustration hit him.
"What—" James started, but Victor cut him off.
"They've got someone to step in, but…" Victor hesitated, his face clouded with concern. That look sent a twinge of dread through James' chest. "It's a lad named Fionn O'Connor."
James could tell there was more to Victor's worry, so he stayed silent, his gaze sharpening with curiosity.
"He's a prizefighter—up and coming," Victor said, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "The Irish bet on him…almost every time."
A heavy dread settled in James' stomach… surely this wasn't a coincidence. But Victor continued, his voice steady, eyes sharp.
"They might approach you, offer you money to throw the fight," he warned, leaning in closer to James. "Take the money, don't get on the wrong side of them, okay?"
James just nodded mechanically, he was already on the wrong side of the Irish.
This couldn't be a coincidence…
Mission - Debut Fight
Goal - Win the Boxing Match against Fionn O'Connor
Rewards - Combat Skill Shard, Shard Socket, Neural Link.
Failure - Never become a Boxer.
—-
Thoughts? Plus any ideas for future plot lines, character interactions etc etc are always appreciated!!!!