Ghost in the Underground

Chapter 15: The Golden Boy

The first thing Sammy did the next morning was ice his ribs.

Even with the pain, his body was adjusting. The underground didn't wait for anyone. His fight with Axel Kane had only been a few days ago, but already, Leon Graves was on the horizon.

A name that had Carlos worried.

A name that meant something in the underground.

Sammy was going to find out why.

Rick slid a tablet across the table. On it was a fight recording.

"Watch this," he said.

Sammy hit play.

The screen lit up with an MMA fight in a professional-looking cage. This wasn't an underground brawl—this was a sanctioned event. The crowd was bigger, the lights brighter.

The camera zoomed in on Leon Graves.

Young. Lean. Sharp movements. He looked like a fighter cut straight out of a training manual.

The bell rang.

Leon's opponent—a stocky, experienced fighter—charged in fast. Leon didn't move. He watched, measured, then slipped to the side just before impact.

Sammy's eyes narrowed. He's patient.

Leon countered with a short, snapping elbow that caught the man on the chin. The opponent stumbled. Leon followed up—one, two, three precise strikes, each landing exactly where they needed to.

A low kick. A body shot. A brutal knee to the face.

The opponent dropped, unconscious.

The fight had lasted twenty seconds.

Sammy exhaled. "Damn."

Rick nodded. "Yeah. Welcome to your next problem."

Carlos crossed his arms. "He's disciplined. Smart. Doesn't waste movement. You saw that patience? That's not something you teach overnight."

Sammy rewound the video. Leon wasn't just fast—he was efficient. He fought like someone who had drilled every move a thousand times.

Rick leaned back. "They call him the 'Golden Boy' because he's built for this. Had money, good trainers, all the best resources."

Sammy smirked. "And now he's fighting underground?"

Carlos nodded. "Because the underground's real. Out here, it's not about padded records or safe matchups. It's about proving you can fight when the rules don't matter."

Sammy ran a hand over his face. One week to get ready.

He pushed the tablet aside. "Alright. Let's get to work."

This time, they didn't go to a boxing gym.

Carlos took Sammy to a run-down MMA facility—a place where guys trained for survival, not sport.

The moment they walked in, Sammy could feel it. The fighters here weren't just training—they were hunting each other.

Ramon, the wrestling coach, grinned when he saw Sammy. "Ready for round two?"

Sammy cracked his neck. "Yeah."

Ramon didn't waste time. He shot in for a takedown, and Sammy barely reacted in time.

His body slammed into the mat.

Again.

And again.

Each time, Ramon corrected him. "Sprawl faster. Hips lower. Keep your damn balance."

Sammy gritted his teeth and adjusted. He had to.

Leon wasn't just a striker—he was a mixed martial artist. If Sammy fought like a pure boxer, he'd get taken apart.

By the end of the session, his arms were shaking from defending takedowns.

Carlos watched, nodding approvingly. "Better. But you're still thinking too much."

Sammy wiped sweat from his forehead. "Thinking keeps me alive."

Carlos smirked. "Not in a fight. In there, it's all instinct."

Sammy sat against the cage, breathing hard.

Leon wasn't just going to be fast—he was going to be unpredictable.

Sammy had to be ready.

That night, Rick tossed a phone onto the table.

"You're famous now."

Sammy frowned and picked it up. A video was trending in underground fight circles. He hit play.

The footage showed Leon Graves standing in a dimly lit gym, wrapping his hands.

He looked straight at the camera.

"I heard my next opponent is some boxer from the underground."

Leon smirked. "Cute."

He started shadowboxing—sharp, clean movements. "I get it. You guys love a good underdog story. But let's be real…"

Leon stopped moving, staring directly into the camera.

"A boxer against an MMA fighter? This isn't a movie. It's a reality check."

The video cut off.

Rick whistled. "Damn. Dude really doesn't think much of you."

Sammy set the phone down. His fingers curled into fists.

Carlos watched him. "Don't let it get to you."

Sammy exhaled slowly. "It's not."

Rick grinned. "Then why do you look pissed?"

Sammy didn't answer. Because Leon was right.

If Sammy fought like just a boxer, he'd lose.

But if Leon thought he was just a boxer…

Then Sammy had an advantage.

Carlos pulled out a notepad, scribbling something down.

"We can use this," he said.

Sammy leaned in. "How?"

Carlos tapped the page. "Leon fights perfect. Too perfect. He's been trained to fight clean, efficient. He expects opponents to move a certain way."

Rick nodded. "So we mess with that."

Carlos grinned. "Exactly."

He looked at Sammy. "We're gonna break every rule in the book."

Sammy raised an eyebrow.

Carlos started listing:

Make it ugly. Leon's used to clean fights. Sammy needed to clinch, elbow, dirty box.

Cut off his space. Leon moved fast, so Sammy had to trap him against the cage.

Throw off his rhythm. Leon relied on perfect timing. If Sammy could disrupt that, he could take control.

Rick grinned. "So basically… cheat?"

Carlos smirked. "It's not cheating if there aren't any rules."

Sammy listened carefully. He wasn't going to out-technique Leon. But he could outfight him.

The underground wasn't about perfection.

It was about who walked out on their feet.

And Sammy planned on making damn sure that was him.

As the days passed, training intensified.

Sammy worked on everything Leon wouldn't expect.

Clinching and dirty boxing. Using elbows, forearm smashes, and wrist control.

Cage control. How to cut off movement and force the fight into close quarters.

Unpredictability. Carlos had him spar with unorthodox fighters—wrestlers, street brawlers, even a few guys who fought dirty.

By the end of the week, Sammy was bruised, exhausted… but ready.

The night before the fight, he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

Leon Graves thought he was walking into a clean fight.

He had no idea what was waiting for him.

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End of Chapter 15