Police sirens blare through the night, growing louder as a pair of cruisers race past a dingy alley. For a moment, their red and blue lights cut into the darkness of the alley, flashing over a young man slumped against the wall, his hands pressed tightly against his stomach, blood soaking through his fingers.
The young man glances up, his sharp grey gaze sweeping across the dark streets, his black wavy hair slick with sweat, sticking against his forehead. With the coast clear and the blue and red lights starting to fade, he takes a breath in relief before slumping down against the wall.
"Well, this is a shitty place to die, literally," he mutters under his breath with a grim chuckle before he's interrupted with a cough. Blood trickles down his lip. Not even bothering to wipe it from his lip, his end is near and he knows it.
Shifting in place, he makes his last few moments a bit more comfortable than they are, his eyes slowly flutter shut as he starts to recall the life he's lived. Was it a well-lived one? Was there more he could've done, more he could've done differently?
Recalling the earliest of memories, his are spent in a boxing gym, watching his father beat on a punching bag relentlessly for what seemed to be hours on end with his younger brother Jake. Admiring his father only came naturally, just how every child admires their father regardless.
Travis didn't take up boxing until he turned ten, his earlier years spent practising a variety of different sports such as football and basketball. No sport ever truly challenged him, and even then, with school he didn't aim for top grades unlike his brother, not interested in a life of pen and paper. He knew what he wanted to do and that's to fight. Sadly, his parents agreed to keep Travis away from any type of combat sports; his mother didn't want his father to influence his decisions further down the line.
After each match, his father pushed Travis to become the best version of himself he possibly could, focusing on teaching Travis the values of discipline and dedication.
Eventually, the day came after his tenth birthday when he got permission from his parents to start boxing after years of pestering. The very first training session — the bare basics — left him breathless and his body feeling like it was made of jelly. In all the different sports he had played, he had never been this exhausted. Strangely enough, he liked it — being pushed to his limits. Knowing that there's more out there and this was only the start had him hooked.
His first spar was a disaster — thrown against a local pro who made short work of him. It was humiliating but necessary, his father arranging it to show Travis how far he needed to go and even then some more. The "loss" stuck with Travis; he hated that feeling — feeling that helplessness, and above all else, losing.
His love for the sport turned into one of obsession. His father was a world ranker, and he wanted to reach that stage — no, he needed to. Even then he knew he wouldn't be satisfied; he needed to be the best there is, the best there ever will be.
With the two years that had passed since then, his skill alone grew tremendously. It was as if he was born for this. He was regarded as a genius of his generation, and rightfully so. He picked up everything his coaches and father threw at him easily — not always right away, but when he did, he caught it. His talent alone made professionals jealous. Now it was only a matter of time for his body to catch up.
Then tragedy struck. His father, a world ranker — an up-and-coming favourite against the world champ — lost. Everyone thought it was a minor setback which a bit more experience would make up for, but then another loss struck once again. Around this time, some shady men started showing up at his family home, all of them tailing a tall, well-built old man with a cocky grin.
The rare times he saw the old man, it sent a tingle down his spine — his instincts telling him this old man was trouble. Travis's father retired shortly after his second loss. He didn't have any solid income, and how he kept the house afloat was a mystery to Travis — not that he focused on that, too engaged in his boxing training.
A few years passed; his parents' marriage started to strain. His father came back home later and later each night, knuckles bloodied and face bruised. One night his mother told him to go get his father at the local pub, stumbling in on his father getting the shit beat out of him, ending the fight with a choke lock. Who was the man that broke his father down like this? A local MMA fighter. This enraged Travis, but another part of him admired the man's skill. So he started taking up different sessions, building his foundation into the world of MMA.
Then one night the police came knocking on his door, delivering the devastating news that his father had passed in a fatal car crash. This broke Travis — his father, the man he looked up to, his motivator — dead. His family started to fall apart, especially his mother. But Travis always made time for his little brother, checking in and bonding with him. Travis tried his best to keep his family together. Money was starting to run dry, so Travis dropped out of school — not that he had any intentions of finishing anyway.
Around this time, he got into fights all around town, filming videos of him beating on random men. Though the videos generated okay money, it wasn't enough. Looking to make even more money, a man approached him — a man all too familiar — the same man he remembered his father hanging around with: Vincent. Vincent pitched him an offer to fight at his nightclub against men twice as old as him — real mean men. Travis didn't hesitate even for a moment and immediately accepted. Each Friday night, the fifteen-year-old boy fought in the nightclub for other people's entertainment — most of them watching, and the rest betting on the grown men. Vincent made his money betting on Travis to win — who would bet on a kid when that kid was up against a grown man?
A few years passed, and Travis grew closer to Vincent, doing more and more jobs besides fighting in the octagon for him — threatening people to pay Vincent his money back. And when they would ultimately refuse — since a pretty-faced kid threatened them — Travis would beat the brakes off them and take their money. Starting with small jobs like this and eventually turning professional in the octagon as a prodigy, going on a winning streak had Travis generate a decent income. The more wins Travis got, the more popular he became. With his popularity growing, it cost Vincent money, so he offered Travis a lot of money to throw his matches. At first, Travis flat-out refused. This angered Vincent. He eventually got Travis to change his mind after holding him at gunpoint and threatening his family. Travis was helpless against them — just as he was when he was a kid in his first sparring match.
His dream became a nightmare. He hated losing, but what choice did he have? Even so, there was a light in his life during this dark time: Alice, Vincent's daughter. After each thrown match, the stunning, soft blonde would cheer him up. Slowly he caught feelings for her, and she for him.
Despite his thrown matches and rough record, he got a contract into the most prestigious MMA organisation: WFC. He avoided Vincent until he eventually managed to get a shot at the middleweight world title.
Walking into his hotel room, he saw Alice on her knees, Vincent standing behind her with his hand grasping her hair and pulling her head back.
"Ah, there you are Travis, my little money maker. You've been avoiding me, huh? Is it because of this whore of a daughter?" Vincent said with a sick grin as he slapped her across the face. The look of surprise Vincent had on his face when he suddenly found himself with a broken jaw and nose would've been gold to Travis — that would've been if Travis actually registered it through his blind rage. It all happened so fast, and before Vincent's men could do anything about it, Travis already got Alice and himself out of there.
That same night, Travis managed to defeat the middleweight champion in stunning fashion, silencing all doubters and getting one step closer to achieving his dream. But that same night, when he achieved his dreams, his world truly fell apart. Returning to his hotel expecting to see Alice, she was nowhere to be found. Only a note was left on his bed reading, "Better check on mommy." Immediately after reading the note, he rushed home, bursting through the front door. His eyes widened at the sight of his dead mother in a pool of her own blood. His wide grey eyes filled with tears as he stared at his mother's lifeless corpse, not accepting reality for a moment, and when it sunk in, he let out a howl of pain.
Stumbling out of his family home, sobbing and breaking down—the home he grew up in, the same home his mother was murdered in. Not sure how long he sat on the porch sobbing and struggling to accept his mother's passing, he eventually stood up and glanced back at the front door. A note was stuck to it, similar to the last one, reading, "Better check on baby bro." This had Vincent's handiwork all over it, his sorrow turning into rage. He knew Vincent was a mob boss, a gangster, but he never thought he'd go this far to teach him a "lesson."
Bursting through the nightclub's front doors, holding a knife in each hand, Travis was immediately met by two gangsters with their handguns raised.
"Mister Vincent's been expecting—" they started to say before getting cut off with a knife in each of their chests.
Travis was consumed by rage, but he didn't intend to just blindly rush in and get himself killed without getting his hands on Vincent. That instinctual fear of life and death should've stopped him, but rage and despair overrode that feeling.
Making his way through the club, he managed to get his hands on one of their handguns, killing any gangster in his path. He got clipped and grazed a few times in the process, leaving a trail of blood and destruction—his own and the men's working for Vincent.
Stumbling through the door of Vincent's office, he was met by Vincent holding his little brother and Alice at gunpoint.
"You should've listened to me, son. You should've obeyed. Maybe your whore of a mother would've still been alive. Thought you were smarter than your daddy, turns out not," Vincent shouted at Travis, the barrel of his gun now pressed against Jake's temple.
Just the sight unfolding before him had Travis's blood boiling, but at those words, he snapped. Vincent killed his father? His face contorted with hate.
Connecting the dots, Travis shouted back at Vincent:
"You sick old fuck! Not only did you kill my mother but also my father?" he said, trembling with rage, rushing at Vincent. "I'll kill you!"
As Travis dashed forward, Vincent quickly raised his gun to meet him but was interrupted and knocked over when Jake rammed himself into Vincent, sending the gun off. The bullet tore through Travis's stomach. This didn't stop Travis. Rage and adrenaline fueled him as he threw an overhand right into Vincent's face, sending him crashing backward into the wall. His gun dropped to the ground. Not letting up, Travis grabbed Vincent's collar and threw him over his shoulder with a picture-perfect judo throw—the only difference being that as Vincent slammed into the ground, Travis didn't let go, using their combined momentum to drive his shoulder into Vincent's stomach.
Now on top of Vincent, Travis let loose—punch after punch raining down. Blood splattered against the wall. Vincent tried fighting Travis off, but there was no way he could. Finishing it off, Travis drove both thumbs through Vincent's eyes into his brain, killing him. Even after his death, Travis grabbed his head and bashed it against the floor. He was snapped out of his rage-induced focus when two gunshots went off. Turning, he saw Alice holding a gun pointed at him, the barrel still smoking. A look of fear and disbelief on her face.
Looking down, Travis's white shirt had two additional holes, already soaked red with blood.
He stared at Alice for a moment—confusion, then heartbreak overtook him.
Out of nowhere, Jake came from the side and knocked Alice clean out with a straight right, then gave her another kick to the head for reassurance.
"You fucking bitch!"
He rushed over to Travis just as he fell onto his back.
"Big bro, come on. Get up, the police will be here any minute!" he said urgently, refusing to entertain the idea of Travis's death.
He managed to help Travis up, but Travis pushed Jake away before stumbling to a nearby safe. The safe was already open. He grabbed a bag, stuffed it with blood money, zipped it up, and tossed it to Jake.
"Get out of here. I'm going to bleed out any minute now, Jake," he said, falling onto one knee, strength draining rapidly, clutching his stomach.
"Don't say that, Travis! Don't you fucking say that! I can't lose you too!" Jake said, tears spilling from his eyes.
He quickly ran to Travis again and helped him up. Travis accepted the help as they stumbled out of the nightclub. Turning to Jake, he grabbed his head and kissed his forehead before pushing him away.
"Jake, you have to go. Start a new life. Be who you want to be. Forget about me. Forget about all this."
"No! There's no fucking way I'm leaving you to die, Travis!" Jake argued, but was interrupted by the sound of sirens a few blocks away.
"Get the fuck out of here now!" Travis barked, his word final as he walked away.
His eyes fluttered open once more, pulling himself away from his dreamscape. He turned his head slightly, only to see a few paramedics rushing toward him. A smile tugged at his lips as darkness took him—darkness, as far as the eye could see. Just then, he heard a voice calling out to him.
"Travis..."
He stirred within the darkness.
"Wake up!"
His eyes shot open in panic, darting around—only to find darkness.
"It's a shame you had to die."
A voice echoed throughout the void, followed by a chuckle.
"Especially in a shit hole like that."
Whoever it was—whatever it was—taunted Travis, and he didn't like it one bit.
"The fuck are you?"
Travis lashed out in anger. If he was truly dead, he didn't want to be mocked any longer. Just to be sent to either hell or heaven. Or maybe this was hell? It would be fitting for a murderer such as himself.
"Something. Someone. But that doesn't matter, because I can help you. Give you another chance at life."
Travis's mind raced at the thought of another chance at life. This couldn't be right. He knew for a fact he was dead. This could be hell for all he knew—and a demon sent to torment him.
"Think about it. You didn't even have the chance to start your reign as the WFC champion."
That was true. The same night he got the WFC championship was the same night he died.
"Yeah, sure. I'll take you up on that offer," Travis said reluctantly, not sure what to expect. But what did he have to lose? If this turned out legit, he could get another chance at life. To see his brother again. To live life on his own terms.
Excitement started to fill Travis, but then, suddenly, whatever it was started laughing. The void itself began to crumble and shake, and then it was as if he was pulled through a straw.
"Sorry, Yeshua. This one is mine."
Those were the last words Travis heard before a sharp pain struck his ass, quickly followed by the insufferable wailing of a baby.
'Whose fucking baby is that—and who just smacked my ass?'
he thought as the smell of blood assaulted his nose. Forcing his eyes open, his vision flooded with a blurry world. He could barely see anything. Then he was wiped down—or so it felt—then wrapped in a cloth.
Confusion struck Travis harder than anything. All around him, he heard excited whispers. The language was foreign. No, not just foreign—he had never heard it before in his life.
Travis struggled to comprehend what was happening, refusing to believe it. He had been promised to be reborn—or brought back to life.
He considered different scenarios. Maybe he was kidnapped? But that didn't make a lick of sense.
No matter how much he fought it, the truth was clear:
He had been reborn, literally.