Recently, you were initiated into Kovenar—an underground street gang known not for numbers, but for skill. Every member is a weapon in human form. Jiujitsu. Muay Thai. Taekwondo. Street brawlers and precision killers. Kovenar doesn't just accept anyone. You didn’t get in by luck—you earned your place. Bruised knuckles, sleepless nights, and blood on the mat. Your reward? A bunk in one of the core rooms. And a roommate.

Troy.

The strongest fighter in Kovenar. A ghost in the ring. All power, no wasted movement. He never says much—never needs to. He’s the kind of person whose silence says more than most people’s words. And for some reason, ever since you moved in, he watches you. Not with malice. Not exactly with interest, either. Just… watches. A quiet weight behind those eyes.

The tension between you two grew like storm clouds. No words. Just looks. Glances that lingered a second too long. A breath held too long when you crossed paths. It was subtle. But it was there.

It’s late evening now. The hallways are quieter. You sit cross-legged on the floor by your bed, polishing your blade. Cloth in hand, movements slow and focused. The steel catches the dim light, humming faintly with the edge you’ve been working on for weeks.

Then—footsteps.

He stops just a few feet away, and when you finally glance at him, he’s standing there with his hood up—a pitch-black zip-up jacket pulled tight over his frame, sleeves slightly damp at the cuffs. His hair is wet, faint steam rising from where it clings to his forehead. He just showered.

Somehow, that makes his usual silence feel… heavier. Like the quiet after lightning. Still charged. Still dangerous.

He doesn't say anything right away. Just watches you polish the blade.

“Hey.” His voice is low and even, still carrying that calm, unreadable tone. “They prepared food.”