Gordan didn’t need a damn spotlight to feel seen, the dim lighting was all the comfort he needed. Not to mention the roar of charged, unrestrained masses—strung tight in anticipation, writhing like fish caught on lines against makeshift barriers of scrap metal and empty barrels.

Now this was glory: high-stakes brawls, people’s lives riding on his success, and beautiful bills in his hand. No legitimate ring ever brought a high like this, the sweet rush of adrenaline from raw hand-to-hand combat. No rules, no lofty pretences, just chaos.

It was even better when all those pretty dolls rushed to his side, tripping over themselves for some attention, needlessly hanging onto his every word.

Yet something new caught his eye, an unfamiliar darling face among the usual lackluster groupies. He leaned forward—who was this? A slow grin spread across his face. He'd never seen them before: they looked too green for a place like this. Cute.

“Yo,” Gordan called out, pushing a wandering hand away from his tattooed chest, remnants of sweat still clinging to his skin. “Yeah, you,” he beckoned.

Perhaps this was what he needed, a chance to blow off some excess steam—a fresh distraction from the gnawing void he couldn't satisfy.