Something heavy smashed into Mateo's temple from the side, knocking him to the floor.
He reeled from the impact, already feeling warm liquid trickling down the side of his head.
Dammit, he thought as heavy footsteps barreled towards him. He rolled away just as Brett's boots stomped the place where his head had been a moment ago.
He swept his leg back and kicked forward, placing himself back in standing position right when something glinted from the corner of his eye.
Mateo pivoted his core and dodged, something sharp grazing his skin and ripping through the black fabric of his shirt.
What the hell was that? Mateo backed away, trying to increase the distance between them to buy time to figure out what was happening. Brett hadn't thrown anything—at least not with his hands.
The alleyway was squeezed between two crumbling buildings, mostly made of brick walls, with ancient AC units that barely functioned anymore, and plastic pipes that ran like snakes along the facades. Besides a couple of rocks on the floor, there wasn't much that could have hit him with such force.
Brett's eyes gleamed with something that resembled murderous intent, a smile spreading across his face. "Not so tough now, are you, hero?"
Mateo scanned his surroundings more carefully. The AC unit closest to Brett looked damaged. The metal casing appeared torn, jagged edges pointing outward like teeth. But it looked... unnatural. Like something had ripped it apart from the inside.
It happened again. Brett flicked his fingers subtly, and another piece of the AC unit tore free with a metallic screech.
No time to think. The piece shot toward Mateo at lightning speed. He sidestepped, the metal shard embedding itself into the brick wall behind him.
That's it. Brett hadn't touched it. The realization dawned on Mateo as he watched another chunk of metal wrench free from the unit. Some kind of metal manipulation.
Brett laughed at Mateo's expression. "Finally figured it out, huh? They don't call me the Iron Knight for nothing."
More shrapnel flew at Mateo. He ducked one piece, spun away from another. Each movement brought him closer to Brett. A jagged shard grazed his arm, opening a thin line of red.
Mateo watched Brett's movements carefully. The thug would gesture with his fingers before each attack, his focus locked on whatever metal he was controlling. When Brett yanked another piece from the AC unit, Mateo saw his chance.
He sprinted forward, closing the distance between them. Brett panicked, hurling a solid pound of metal directly at Mateo's chest. Mateo launched himself five feet into the air, arching his back to avoid the projectile that whistled beneath him. Now he was at punching distance. Perfect.
As he descended, Mateo planted the ball of his right foot on the ground, curved his left leg into a kicking position, rotating to build maximum momentum in the confined space.
In less than a second from landing, he unleashed one of his most powerful kicks—all those hours on the gym's punching bag condensed into this single strike aimed at Brett's jaw. In his mind, he could already see blood, spit, and teeth flying from the impact.
If it had hit.
Brett raised his arm, a white metal plate suddenly wrapping around his wrist, blocking the hit. Just barely. His feet skidded back several inches, even with his considerable weight. He grinned with bravado, but Mateo could see the strain in his face, the clenched teeth and bulging veins. He was close to breaking through.
The sound of impact with metal resonated through the alleyway, and Brett's companions stepped forward.
"The fuck are you tryna do?" Brett yelled at them, his voice strained. "Think I can't win against a quirkless kid, eh? You bastards!"
"That's not what—" Bones began, until he looked up and they all saw the red light wash over them.
A drone. A black, tortoise-sized robot hovering above the alley. They were deployed to reduce crime by monitoring the city and alerting military forces when trouble broke out in civilian areas, but Mateo knew they weren't that effective. He'd heard rumors some had been hijacked and used as private spy devices.
Brett's face lit up with a cruel joy, like this was the best thing that could have happened.
He raised the finger of his left arm while Mateo's kick was still pressing against his right, and with a downward flick, brought the drone crashing down.
Mateo leapt backward, barely escaping as the drone smashed into the granite ground with enough force to crack it.
The machine shattered on impact, sending sparks, springs, and metal fragments flying in all directions. Brett's smile widened—more ammunition.
The scattered pieces rose from the ground as if pulled by invisible strings, swirling around Brett's hands. They fused together, metal flowing like liquid until it formed crude but deadly gauntlets that encased his fists.
"Now it gets interesting," Brett growled, the metal on his knuckles gleaming in the early morning light.
Mateo steadied his breathing and charged forward. They crashed together in a brutal exchange of blows.
Fists flew in a blur, too fast for the watching thugs to follow. Every punch Mateo threw met solid metal. This was nothing like hitting a punching bag. This was real combat, with consequences. Mateo's knuckles, already calloused from daily practice, began to split and bleed as they repeatedly slammed against the unyielding metal.
Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. His lungs burned with each breath. Fatigue crept into his muscles, making each movement slower than the last. But he couldn't stop. If he lost, there was no guarantee Brett would let him walk away.
Brett manipulated the metal of his gauntlets, making them glow red-hot. The scent of burning flesh filled the air as Mateo's knuckles sizzled against the heated metal, but he refused to back down.
He shifted tactics, aiming kicks at Brett's less protected legs. Brett responded by forming metal shin guards that deflected each strike. Between exchanges, Brett would launch metal shards at Mateo's exposed areas. When Mateo dodged, Brett would capitalize on the opening, landing brutal punches that left Mateo's ribs and face bruised and swollen.
Twenty minutes into the fight, Mateo's vision began to blur. His body was a canvas of pain—cuts from metal shards, burns from the heated gauntlets, bruises from direct hits. Still, he pushed forward.
"Come on, bro. Let's go get a drink at the motel," Razor called out, stifling a yawn. "You're just gonna tire yourself out."
But Brett and Mateo remained locked in combat, deaf to everything but the rhythm of their battle. For the onlookers, it might have seemed pointless, but for the two fighters, it had become something more.
For Mateo, this was his first real fight. Despite the pain—or perhaps because of it—he felt more alive than ever before. Each blow he landed, each hit he took, was a step toward the hero he wanted to become.
For Brett, this was the first time in years someone had lasted more than a few minutes against him. What should have been an easy victory had turned into a genuine struggle. His reputation in The Cemetery hinged on finishing this. If word got out that a quirkless nobody had stood toe-to-toe with the Iron Knight, his days of easy fear and respect would be over.
As the fight dragged on, Brett's frustration grew. His attacks became wilder, more desperate. The metal around his hands shifted constantly, seeking any advantage. Mateo, despite his exhaustion, found clarity in the rhythm of the fight, anticipating Brett's moves seconds before they came.
But no amount of skill could overcome the simple fact that Mateo was human, fighting against metal. His body was failing him, even as his spirit remained unbroken.
Mateo threw another punch at Brett's iron gauntlet, but this time, something was different. Instead of a smooth metal surface, his fist connected with dozens of small, jagged spikes that had sprouted from the metal.
His knuckles drove straight into the spikes, which tore through his already blistered and burnt skin. The spikes pierced deep, breaking small bones, shredding muscle and tendon beneath.
The pain wasn't just in his hand. It exploded behind his eyes, white-hot and all-consuming, like molten metal poured directly into his brain.
Mateo's leg gave way, and he collapsed backward. His body had surrendered, even if his will hadn't.
Brett stood over him, breathing hard but triumphant. A crazed smile stretched across his face as he gathered all the metal fragments around him, the iron and steel bending and flowing into unnatural shapes until it formed something that resembled a large, serrated axe.
Razor and Bones tensed as the weapon materialized. "I thought you were just gonna beat this guy up," Razor said, suddenly nervous. "You really want to off him? Here?"
Bones shifted uncomfortably. "Man, the drones already spotted us once. You kill him, and we're all getting shipped to the front lines."
Brett didn't answer. His eyes had a faraway look, the kind that came when power and rage overwhelmed reason. The crazed smile grew wider as he raised the axe high, ready to cleave Mateo's life in two.
Behind them, sirens wailed in the distance. Someone had reported the fight, or maybe the drone had functioned long enough to send an alert. It didn't matter now. In The Cemetery, police response times were measured in hours, not minutes.
For Mateo, bleeding on the ground, those sirens might as well have been on another planet. His vision tunneled to just the gleaming edge of the axe, descending toward him in what felt like slow motion.