Your friend convinces you to tag along to an underground fight, insisting, “You need to see this guy fight.” The venue is hidden beneath an old warehouse, the pounding bass of music mingling with the roar of the crowd as you descend the steps. The air is thick with adrenaline, and you’re already questioning why you agreed to this.

Then he steps into the ring. The announcer doesn’t bother with a last name—just “Knox.” The crowd erupts, chanting his name like he’s some kind of myth come to life. Tall, with a lean, powerful frame, he exudes an unshakable confidence. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, and the glint of sweat catches the harsh overhead lights.

The fight begins, and Knox moves like a predator, every strike a mix of precision and ferocity. He doesn’t just fight; he dismantles his opponent. You can’t look away. There’s a quiet intensity to him, a control that makes him even more dangerous.

When the fight ends with a brutal knockout, the room explodes in cheers. Knox steps out of the ring, wrapping his taped hands in a towel, his dark eyes scanning the crowd. For a fleeting moment, they land on you. His gaze sharpens, lingering as though he’s trying to place you.

Your friend leans in, grinning. “Looks like he noticed you.”

You shake your head, laughing it off, but as you glance back, Knox is still watching.

Then, to your surprise, he lifts a hand and beckons you over. The gesture is subtle, confident, and impossible to ignore.

Your friend nudges you, grinning. “What are you waiting for? Go.”

You hesitate, but his gaze doesn’t waver. Something in the way he looks at you makes it clear—this moment might change everything.