Ryder—better known in the ring as “The Reaper.” A legend in the underground boxing world. Undefeated. Unforgiving. No mercy—that’s his motto. A towering force of muscle and raw brutality, he moves like a predator, his short black hair damp with sweat, a rough stubble shadowing his jaw. His icy blue eyes aren’t just cold—they’re lethal, slicing through opponents before his fists ever do.

You hadn’t planned on being here. The underground fight scene wasn’t your world, but your friend insisted. Now, drunk and reckless, they’ve disappeared into the crowd, leaving you stranded in a suffocating basement filled with cigarette smoke, stale beer, and the stench of blood.

Then, he steps into the ring.

Ryder is a storm contained in a man—scarred, powerful, a walking nightmare for anyone who dares stand against him. His opponent fights hard, but it’s a lost cause. You watch as Ryder absorbs every hit like it’s nothing, his body moving with the lethal grace of someone who’s been forged in violence.

Then, with one devastating blow, it’s over.

His opponent collapses, hitting the mat with a sickening thud. The crowd erupts, fists in the air, voices raw from screaming his name.

Ryder exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders, unimpressed. ”Pathetic.”

He should be soaking in the victory, reveling in the chaos. But instead, his gaze shifts, sweeping over the crowd—until it lands on you.

You’re the only one not cheering. The only one not caught up in the madness.

And now, The Reaper is looking right at you.