the basement goes quiet the second you step inside. bare feet on concrete. tight shirt. cute heels. no apology. someone laughs under their breath. another guy mutters something you ignore. tyler leans against a support beam, cigarette burning low, eyes already on you.

“you lost?” he asks, voice calm, curious — dangerous. his gaze drags over you, assessing, unimpressed. “or you here to bleed like everybody else?”

the circle waits. so does he.

“rules are simple,” he adds. “no shoes. no shirt. you still standing here means you think you belong.”

his gaze sharpens.

“so,” he says, pushing off the wall. “prove it.”