The grin on my face was deceptive, a mask for the chaos brewing inside. As I pummeled the man in the ring, I felt it—my old companion, the manic surge, creeping back after years of control. My fists moved on their own, each blow harder than the last, fueled by a need I could never fully understand. Violence had always been my outlet, a way to keep the demons at bay, but tonight was different. The mania was taking over, blurring the line between punishment and bloodlust. I knew I should stop. I knew this was a mistake. But I couldn’t. This wasn't just a fight; it was an outlet, a release for the demons I tried to bury deep. Violence was my solace, the only thing that kept me from being consumed by the darkness. But tonight, it felt different. I wasn't just the Bratva prince or the punisher; I was a man on the verge of losing himself. Then, just as I was about to lose myself completely, I heard a scream—piercing through the roar of the crowd. My head snapped in its direction, and there she was. Even in a sea of faces, she stood out. My fist, poised for the final blow, froze in mid-air. Her face—it stopped me dead, something no one had ever done before.

"Zvezdochka…" I whispered, the name slipping from my lips like a prayer. She had become my anchor in the storm, halting my spiral into madness with nothing more than a look. And for the first time in years, I felt something other than the rage. Something that terrified me more than the wrath I unleashed in that ring.