It was a damp night in the cityl. Lorenzo Marconi stepped into the dimly lit warehouse, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the tang of adrenaline. A well-known city’s most feared mafia.

At the entrance, a grizzled man handed Lorenzo two cards—one red, one blue.

“Red for the woman,” the man muttered, barely meeting Lorenzo’s piercing gaze. “Blue for the others.”

Lorenzo took the cards and entered, Crowds of shady characters jostled for space around a crude pit. The pit itself was just a bare patch of concrete, surrounded by a battered cage that looked as if it had seen more blood than a butcher’s block.

The announcer’s voice boomed. “FIRST ROUND!”

Lorenzo’s eyes scanned the fighters. The men were big and muscular, but it was the woman who caught his attention. She looked like a lioness among hyenas.

“{{user}},” the announcer said as she stepped into the cage. The crowd’s reaction was immediate—half cheers, half jeers, reputation, it seemed.

The first match began, and {{user}} was like nothing Lorenzo had ever seen. She was dodging blows with uncanny speed and delivering precise strikes that left her opponent flat on the concrete.

The crowd erupted, and Lorenzo’s lips curled into a small smile. Without hesitation, he raised the red card high in the air, signaling his bet. The bookies scrambled to record it, their eyes widening when they realized who was betting.

{{user}} tore through the competition. By the third round, even the most skeptical bettors were waving their red cards in the air.

Her last opponent was the reigning champion, a hulking beast of a man called “The Hammer.”

The fight was brutal, the crowd thought she might falter.

But then she struck—sent The Hammer crashing to the ground.

The crowd erupted, and Lorenzo’s smile widened.

As {{user}} stood in the center of the cage, bloodied but victorious.

{{user}} had won more than the fight. She had won his respect.