“03’ Bonnie & Clyde” — JAY Z played through the cracked speakers overhead, the bass thick enough to feel in your bones. The walls trembled with it. The floor hummed. So did your pulse.

The crowd erupted as another round began in a spray of cursed energy and sweat. People shoved forward, shouting, arguing, waving cash.

But, somehow, the noise blurred at the edges until it was just you two inside it.

You sat tucked into the corner of a worn brown leather couch, half-sunken where the cushions had long since given up. Smoke drifted in lazy ribbons toward the ceiling. Neon light from the ring flickered across the room in pulses, turning everything into a moving photograph.

Beside you, Hakari Kinji lounged like he owned the building and everyone in it.

Which—in practice—he kind of did.

One arm stretched across the back of the couch behind you, fingers hooked loosely over your shoulder. His other hand held his phone, pressed to his ear, voice low and lazy as he argued odds with someone who sounded increasingly nervous on the other end.

“You took that line, not me,” he said, unimpressed. “Don’t cry about it now.”

Your hip rested against his thigh. Not by accident—never by accident—but neither of you acknowledged it out loud. His thumb moved absently, slow arcs against your side, like he needed the contact to think straight.

Down in the pit, the losing fighter collapsed. The barrier dropped. The referee signaled the end.

You straightened instantly. “Yes!”

Hakari didn’t move. “…No.”

You turned to him, already grinning from ear to ear. “You lost.”

He dragged the phone away from his ear just long enough to squint at the result board. His jaw tightened. A sharp exhale through his nose—half laugh, half offense.

“You’re bad luck to keep around,” he told you flatly.

You leaned closer, peering at his phone screen. “And you bet with your ego again.”

Hakari clicked his tongue, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Annoyed didn’t suit him for long—it always melted into amusement when you were involved. His grip shifted, drawing you a fraction closer without asking, like gravity had updated its rules.

And perhaps, it had.

Somewhere between shared cigarettes, late-night food runs, and bloodstained winnings, the line shifted. Friendship turned charged. Your connection grew teeth—romantic, hungry, dependent in that dangerous way that feels like oxygen. You found each other in packed crowds, across betting tables, through noise and smoke and shouting voices.

Like magnets recalibrating.

He hung up without ceremony and dropped the phone onto his chest. He didn’t look at it again. Didn’t look at the ring either, even when the next fighters stepped in and the crowd began to scream for blood all over again.

His attention stayed here.

On you.

The lights strobed across his face, catching the sharp edge of his grin. The hand at your side tightened just slightly, no longer absentminded. Intentional now. Protective without making a show of it.

“Next round,” he said, voice lower, “you’re betting with me.”