PLAYER SYSTEM C22 FIRST FIGHT

The three men turned to face Jack, each of them wearing matching leather jackets marked with a crude skull emblem sporting a comically large afro. Their hair matched the logo—dense, round, and distinct. It didn’t take a genius to realize they were part of the same gang.

‘So… afro and a skull. Must be one of the local street gangs,’ Jack thought, eyeing their sloppy, overconfident stance.

One of them, a hefty guy with a beer belly barely tucked into his belt, stepped forward with a smug grin. “Well, well... look at this. Some hero wannabe thinkin’ he’s gonna fix injustice in South Merida?” He sneered, his yellowed teeth flashing. “Do yourself a favor, kid. Keep walkin’. This ain’t your business.”

The two others stepped up, both broader and taller than Jack. One cracked his neck with a grunt, the other flexed his chest as if trying to intimidate.

“Yeah, unless you’re lookin’ to eat pavement, I suggest you turn around,” said the bigger one, his voice low and rough.

The third spat at the guy writhing on the ground and cracked his knuckles. “Don’t scare him off yet. I haven’t had my warm-up today. Might as well let him be my next toy.”

Jack said nothing at first. He felt no fear. Strangely, his heart was steady, and his blood was running hot—not with nerves, but excitement.

The crowd had started to gather, murmuring and recording.

“This just got interesting...”

“Someone’s actually stepping in? Is he insane?”

“Record it. This’ll go viral in five minutes.”

Jack’s gaze remained locked on the gang, his hands still casually in his pockets. Then he finally spoke—cold, unshaken.

“You think it’s impressive, ganging up on one smaller guy?” His voice was calm, sharp like ice. “All I see are three clowns trying to find purpose in a street corner brawl. Cowards. That’s what you are.”

The crowd gasped. Some froze, others grinned in disbelief.

Jack gave a small smirk, tilting his head. “Honestly, if I were you, I’d turn myself in. Prison would at least give your lives some structure.”

A stillness washed over the street.

‘Did he just say that?’ the crowd thought in stunned silence.

The thugs tensed. The belly-man’s face twisted with rage. “You little punk… You’re dead!” he roared, charging with a raised fist.

Jack didn’t move. Not yet.

As the punch came, time slowed in his eyes. He analyzed the swing—it was wide, sloppy, slow.

‘This is your big move?’

Jack simply stepped aside, dodging cleanly.

“Lucky shot!” the man barked and swung again, faster this time.

But Jack was faster.

He ducked low and then, with a surge of practiced motion, launched an uppercut straight into the thug’s chin.

CRACK.

The man’s eyes rolled back as the blow lifted him off the ground. His body landed a few feet away with a loud thud—completely unconscious.

The crowd gasped.

The remaining two thugs stared in stunned silence. Samantha, watching from the edge, grinned. “Now that… was hot.”

The two remaining thugs froze in shock, eyes wide as they stared at their unconscious friend sprawled on the pavement. His face was mashed into the ground, lips kissing the asphalt, and his loud, uneven breathing made it clear he was out cold.

“Belly!” one of them shouted, rushing to his side. They shook him hard. “Come on, man, wake up!”

“Shit... he’s not getting up,” the other muttered, panic creeping into his voice.

They exchanged a glance. Their concern quickly twisted into rage.

“You’re dead, punk,” growled the taller one, veins bulging in his neck.

“You really think you can walk away after that?” the other spat.

Jack watched them without a hint of worry. He idly cleaned his ear with his pinky finger, then flicked the invisible speck away with a sigh. “Hm? I don’t think so. I’ve still got somewhere to be.”

The two thugs glared. Then, with synchronized movement, they reached into their jackets.

The crowd gasped.

Each thug pulled out a gleaming combat knife, blades long and sharp, catching the light with deadly promise.

“Let’s see how tough you are now, smartass,” one of them growled, brandishing the knife.

The tension snapped like a wire. The crowd immediately began to scatter.

“Shit, he’s got a knife!”

“Back off! I’m not catching a blade today!”

Some turned to flee. Others raised their phones higher, voices trembling but cameras steady.

Meanwhile, Samantha stood nearby, her expression shifting from amused to alarmed. She darted to Jack’s side, sliding past the panicking crowd like a breeze.

“Jack! They’ve got weapons!” she said, eyes wide with concern. “You’ve got to be careful—please, let me help you.”

She instinctively reached out to his shoulder, then paused mid-touch, blinking. “Wait… I forgot. I can’t do anything. I’m just... virtual character.” Her voice fell. “I feel so useless... I can touch you, but I can’t help you…”

Jack glanced at her, still calm, his tone even. “It’s fine. They won’t touch me.”

Samantha’s eyes sparkled with surprise. His confidence, his presence—it lit something inside her. ‘He really is... the one,’ she thought, hands trembling at her sides.

But the moment was cut short.

“Watch out!” Samantha shouted as the two thugs charged forward, knives flashing.

Jack didn’t flinch.

With a small smirk, he moved.

The knives slashed through empty air, missing him by inches. Jack swayed and ducked with effortless grace, his body flowing like water.

From the crowd, gasps erupted.

“Holy crap! He dodged them like nothing!”

“He’s not just confident—he’s legit!”

Jack stood between the two stunned thugs, hands still in his pockets.

“That’s it?” he said with a dry chuckle. “You two are slower than the auto-cookers in South Merida.”

The crowd roared with laughter.

The two thugs growled in frustration, rage twisting their faces as they lunged at Jack with more intensity than before.

‘Tch. This is boring,’ Jack thought as he watched their clumsy movements. ‘I was hoping to at least learn something from this fight, but they’re just trash.’

With swift, fluid motions, Jack moved. One moment he was still, the next—he struck with precise, clean blows. A quick jab to the solar plexus, a spinning kick to the jaw—within seconds, both thugs crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

The crowd stood frozen in silence.

Then one person clapped. Another cheered. And like a ripple, the crowd broke into applause and whistles, their excitement finally catching up.

Jack didn’t acknowledge them. He simply turned his back.

But Samantha, arms crossed and pouting, wasn’t nearly as forgiving.

“Hmph! Hypocrites,” she scoffed, loud enough for the onlookers to hear. “A moment ago, they were cheering for the bullies—or too scared to lift a finger—and now they’re acting like you’re their hero.”

Jack smirked slightly and nodded. “Yeah. Pathetic.”

As a few people began to timidly approach him, Jack narrowed his eyes—just a subtle shift, but sharp enough to stop them in their tracks. They quickly backed off, the cheers dying down into an awkward silence.

Satisfied, Jack stepped over to the young man who had been beaten. The guy was still sitting on the ground, groaning softly.

Jack offered a hand. “Hey. You alright?”

The young man blinked up at him through a swollen eye. He squinted, and then recognition sparked.

“Wait… You’re the mechanic from Greasepit 10, right?”

Jack smiled. “Yeah. That’s me.”

The young man chuckled weakly, wincing as he took Jack’s hand. “Damn… I didn’t think you were this strong. You took those guys out like it was nothing.”

Jack gave a modest shrug. “They were nothing.”

Helping the young man sit up, Jack asked, “What happened? Who were those guys? Why were they after you?”

The young man hesitated, eyes darting to the unconscious bodies of the three thugs sprawled nearby. His shoulders tensed as if just looking at them rekindled his fear.

He exhaled shakily and muttered, “They’re part of a local biker gang called the Afro-Skulls. Pretty well-known around South Merida… for all the wrong reasons.”

Jack nodded, listening intently.

“They’ve been shaking down Junkers like me,” the young man continued. “They call it a ‘protection fee.’ Basically, they want a cut of anything I earn in the Root Tower. When I told them to piss off…” He laughed bitterly. “Well, you saw what happened.”

“You made the right call,” Jack said firmly. “People like them think they can coast on someone else’s struggle. Extortion is all they know.”

Then Jack’s tone shifted slightly, more cautious. “But be careful. If they’re a big gang, they might come back. With more.”

The young man gave a tired chuckle. “Then you should watch your back too. You just humiliated three of theirs in public.”

Jack smirked. “Let them try. I’ll be fine.”

The young man looked up at him, his voice softer. “Seriously… thank you. I don’t even know how to repay you.”

Jack shook his head. “Don’t. Just stay alive and keep doing what you’re doing.”

As he stood up, the young man glanced toward the unconscious thugs. His eyes narrowed, spotting the one with the protruding belly.

“That one,” he said, pointing, “Belly. He’s the guy who scammed me—sold me that digital hoverbike, claiming it was analog. I could’ve died if I hadn’t jumped off in time.”

Jack glanced at the man, a flicker of disgust in his expression. “So not only does he scam Junkers, he risks their lives doing it. Pathetic.”

He looked back at the young man. “You’re lucky you made it out. Next time, be more cautious about where your gear comes from.”

“I will,” the guy nodded. “And again… thank you. You didn’t have to help, but you did.”

Jack simply shrugged. “That’s what decent people do.”

Samantha, still beside him, smiled proudly.