We walked for a long time.
At first — ordinary streets.
Then — less crowded ones.
Then streets where only every other streetlight was working.
Mark looked calm. He moved with confidence, as if he knew the route by heart.
"Are you sure this is the place?" I asked when we turned into a narrow alley.
"If I were sure," he smirked, "I wouldn't have brought you."
The building looked unremarkable.
A gray facade. Peeling paint. No signs.
Just another ordinary house — one of thousands in the city.
We went inside.
An old metal elevator.
Mark pressed a button labeled **B3**.
"The basement?" I asked.
"Lower," he replied. "Much lower."
The elevator descended.
When the doors opened, I froze.
This wasn't a basement.
A city stretched out in front of us.
Real streets. Passages. Neon-lit signs.
People walked past, talking, laughing, arguing.
Some buildings were closed — dark, with dim light behind the windows.
Others were bright and lively, filled with noise.
"Undercity," Mark said quietly.
"Everything here is illegal. But everything works."
We walked down the street.
On the left was a regular bar — people drinking, watching screens.
On the right — a building that looked like a computer hall: glass walls, rows of terminals, glowing panels.
"This way," Mark nodded.
Inside, it was loud.
A bar counter stretched along the wall. People drank, placed bets, argued.
But on the other side of the counter was the real core.
Monitors.
Graphs.
Battle windows.
Dozens of people sat at computers, tracking arenas, accepting bets, entering data.
Battles were playing on the screens.
Five versus five.
No names. Only levels and stats.
I approached one of the operators — a man in his forties with a tired, irritated expression.
"My father placed a bet here," I said. "He lost."
I paused.
"I want to know… what he bet on. Is that possible?"
The man slowly raised his head.
"You're asking the wrong questions," he said coldly.
"That's not something people ask about here."
"I just want to understand—"
"Either you place a bet," he interrupted, his voice hardening, "or you leave."
"People don't get kicked out for asking questions here. They disappear."
I fell silent.
"Got it?" he added. "Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong."
We stepped away.
I was about to tell Mark we should leave when someone called out to us.
"Hey. Newbies."
A guy and a girl. Slightly older than us. Calm. Confident.
"We're forming a team," the girl said. "Beginner arena."
"Two points in any stat," the guy added. "Simple stake. You won't lose much."
"And you might even get an artifact," she smiled. "If you're lucky."
Mark immediately perked up.
"How does this even work?" I asked. "I'm new. Never done this before."
The girl raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Seriously?" she looked at me closely.
"You've never been to an arena? Never even seen one?"
I shook my head.
"Then listen," she said. "It's simple."
"You stand on the platforms," she continued.
"The System transfers you into the arena matrix."
"All sensations are real — pain, fatigue, fear. Everything feels real."
"If you get knocked out," the guy added,
"the arena ends for you."
"No second chances. One mistake — and you're out."
The girl nodded and continued:
"Teams of five."
"One tank."
"Two melee fighters."
"Two ranged fighters."
"There are no mages or healers at our level," she said. "Physically none."
"Those classes only appear in the second block. So we fight without them."
"If you win," the guy added, "you return with your gains."
"If you lose — with the loss of the stats you staked."
"If you decide to join," the girl said finally,
"go to the counter and ask for Angelina. They know me."
We stepped back out into the Undercity streets.
We walked in silence, passing between buildings, through these strange streets where a hidden life thrived — one that was never spoken about openly.
People laughed, argued, placed bets, as if it were just another ordinary evening.
I looked around and thought.
About how easily people risked here.
About how casually they wagered what, for us, meant years of life.
Home greeted me with silence.
I sat down on the bed and absentmindedly stroked Glitch, who immediately curled up beside me with a contented sigh.
The dog pressed against my side, as if he knew that right now I just needed quiet company.
I didn't need to win big.
I didn't need sudden leaps.
I just needed to move forward.
To finally push through that cursed Charisma.
Level five.
Level twenty.
A decent job.
So Mom wouldn't have to carry everything alone.
So I could actually help — not just with promises.
I stared at the ceiling and thought.
I didn't like fighting.
I didn't like risk.
But maybe, sometimes, you just have to take a step toward the place you're afraid to go.
Even if it's not for victory.
But simply… to move.