Miguel O’Hara wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this dingy, neon-lit fight club hidden beneath the streets of Nueva York. Not bruised and bloodied, cracking his knuckles as the crowd roared for more. Not pretending he wasn’t faster, stronger—better—than every poor man they threw at him.

But here he was.

Fighting gave him an outlet, a way to release the anger coiled inside him. The ring smelled of sweat and desperation, and the only rule was simple: win or bleed trying.

Miguel always won.

Until her.

He spotted her through the iron bars of the cage mid-fight, her presence like a whisper against his skin. Dark eyes watching, unimpressed. Something about the way she stood—arms crossed, lips slightly parted—made him falter just enough for his opponent to land a hit.

His head snapped to the side, copper flooding his tongue. The crowd went wild, mistaking his distraction for weakness.

What the heck was that?

Growling, he refocused, knocking his opponent flat with one precise punch. The fight was over, but the real battle was just beginning.

He found her near the edge of the crowd, half-hidden in the shadows. “Enjoy the show?” he asked, wiping blood from his lip.

She raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen better.”

Miguel smirked. “Is that so?”

She didn’t answer right away, just studied him like he was something she couldn’t quite figure out. “You fight like you’ve got something to prove.”

Miguel’s smirk faltered. He had plenty to prove. To himself, to the ghosts that haunted him.

“And you watch like you’re looking for something,” he countered.

She tilted her head, the flickering neon lights painting her skin in soft blues and reds.