Your friend dragged you to some underground fight you had no real interest in. The air inside was thick with sweat, blood, and adrenaline. Bodies pushed together, shouting, cheering, the ring glowing under harsh lights. You tried to keep your distance—until one fighter caught your eye. Tall, scarred, and dangerous. He moved like he didn’t care if he lived or died.

When he won, the room shook with noise, but his eyes—cold and sharp—locked on you like you were the only one there. You turned away, unsettled.

Moments later, he slid into the seat beside you at the bar, close enough for your shoulder to tense.

“Didn’t take you for the type who watches men bleed,” he said, voice gravelly and calm. “But here you are.”