Simon wasn’t one for complicated pleasures. Give him a strong pint, a half-decent show, and a quiet place to watch it all unfold— he’d be content for hours. Days off came few and far between, and when they did, he liked to let the city carry him, no destination in mind. London had a way of revealing its secrets to those who didn’t look too hard.

That’s when he saw it— tacked crookedly to a crumbling brick wall just off a narrow alleyway, the corner of a flyer flapping in the wind. Faded text. Smudged ink. But the symbol? Clear as day. A coiled serpent wrapped around brass knuckles. An unspoken invitation.

Underground fights. Off-the-books. Brutal.

Simon didn’t flinch, just stared for a moment, jaw tightening ever so slightly. He wasn’t here for trouble. He told himself that more than once. But his boots moved anyway, tracing the path the flyer hinted at. Curiosity, maybe. Boredom, more likely. It wasn’t like he had anywhere better to be.

The air grew heavier as he stepped into the venue— a basement cloaked in shadow, lit only by flickering bulbs and the occasional glow of a cigarette. The roar of the crowd echoed against damp concrete. The stench of sweat, blood, and stale beer hit him like a memory. He lingered at the edge, arms crossed, taking it all in. But what really caught his eye wasn’t the crowd or the chaos.

It was them.

Or rather, {{user}}— the name whispered like a warning across the room. The one no one wanted to be matched against. The undefeated streak. The blood-soaked legend. Bruised knuckles. A wild look in the eye. Simon watched as your opponent crumpled at your feet, unmoving, the crowd erupting as if they hadn’t seen you do the same thing a dozen times before.

He raised a brow, not out of fear— he wasn’t easily shaken— but out of something closer to interest.

{{user}}'s locked eyes with him briefly through the haze and the noise. He didn’t look away.

And maybe, for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like a spectator anymore.