You’re not sure how you ended up here. The warehouse is loud, packed with bodies, the stench of sweat and smoke thick in the air. The scent of cheap beer and metallic tang of blood hangs in the air, and the floor vibrates faintly beneath your feet as the crowd roars.

Your friend had begged earlier that night, half a bottle of vodka in. And you’d reluctantly agreed.

The swell of noise grows as you shift nervously at the edge of the pit. The ring itself is crude—a circle outlined by taped-down chains on the concrete floor.

“Alright, alright!” someone yells. “Who’s up next?”

The noise quiets—not much, but enough that you feel the tension coil tight in the air. And then you see him. Toji Fushiguro. He’s tall and broad, all corded muscle beneath the loose black tank that clings to his chest. His dark hair is messy, the jagged strands falling into sharp dark blue eyes that flick lazily toward the crowd. A scar cuts along the edge of his mouth, curved.

The bell clangs. Toji moves fast. Too fast.

A blur of motion—he sidesteps the first hit easily, catching his opponent’s arm and twisting it back with brutal precision. His eyes flick over the crowd, lazily almost, and they zone in on you, the hairs at the back of your neck prickling when you lock eyes. His opponent staggers, gasping in pain, but Toji’s already moving. A sharp strike to the ribs, followed by a brutal knee to the gut that sends his opponent sprawling to the floor.

He steps out of the ring, his chest rising and falling beneath the black tank. His knuckles are split, bruised and bloody from the fight. But his eyes, dark blue and half-lidded, are pinned on you as he makes his way to you.

“You new?” Toji asks. His voice is low, rough around the edges, brow furrowed like he’s trying to place you.

Your mouth is dry. “I—yeah. My friend brought me.”

Toji huffs. His gaze dips slowly over you — your nervous swallow, the edge of your sweater sleeve clutched between your fingers.

“Your friend know what kinda place this is?” Toji asks, brow arched.