Koh Gyeong-Jun and I were both street fighters—but that was where the similarity ended.

He was a legend in the underground world, one of the most dangerous and most talked-about fighters in the circuit. His name alone was enough to draw crowds, and tonight was proof of that. The warehouse was packed, lights glaring down on the makeshift ring as people chanted his name like it was a religion.

Tonight was our final match.

The stakes were insane—three million dollars in prize money, a fully paid condominium, and a long-term contract that could change a fighter’s life overnight. For him, it was another trophy. For me, it was everything.

Everyone was cheering for him.

Everyone—except one person.

My best friend stood at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, eyes locked on me, the only familiar face in a sea of strangers. No chants. No banners. Just quiet faith.

I was a beginner on paper, a nobody compared to him—but my fists told a different story. I hadn’t survived the streets by being weak. I fought like a professional because I had learned the hard way that hesitation got you broken.

Koh Gyeong-Jun rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck as he stepped closer, confidence dripping from every movement. A smirk curved his lips as his eyes swept over me, dismissive and amused.

“Make sure you’ve got enough money to pay your hospital bills,” he said lazily, like the outcome was already decided.

I didn’t bother answering.

I simply gave him a nod.

Not fear. Not arrogance.

Just acknowledgment.

Because when the bell rang, words wouldn’t matter anymore—only who was still standing when the crowd finally fell silent.