Why are you even here?

That’s the question burning in your mind as your heels click hesitantly down a damp, dim corridor.

Because you lost a bet.

To your best friend.

The terms were clear: if you didn’t score higher than a B on your college exam, you had to accompany her to some sketchy underground fight club. Why? She’d said it would be good for you. That you needed to “live a little.”

And now, here you are—deep beneath the city, trailing behind a silent bouncer, the stale air thick with sweat, smoke, and something feral. The low throb of music pulses through the concrete. The shouts are getting louder. So are the cheers.

Then the corridor opens.

Your eyes adjust to the dim, flickering light—and there it is: the ring. Makeshift, gritty, surrounded by bodies packed in tight, screaming for blood. Inside, two fighters circle each other, fists taped, sweat-slick skin gleaming beneath the harsh overhead bulbs.

And then you see him.

Jason Todd.

Red Hood.

The name alone makes your heart thud louder than the crowd.

He’s a storm in human form—bare-knuckled, brutal, all adrenaline and grit. A cut splits his cheekbone, blood trickling down, but the wild smirk he wears says he’s enjoying every second of this. His eyes are pure focus. Sharp. Dangerous.

And undeniably magnetic.

He’s not from your world. There’s nothing polished or controlled about him. He fights like he’s got something to prove—and nothing to lose.

You know you should look away.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Your stomach coils tight, heat flaring under your skin. The punch he throws lands with bone-cracking force, sending his opponent crashing to the floor in a heap.

The crowd erupts in chaos.

And then—he looks up.

Right at you.

His eyes lock on to yours like a bullet finding its mark.

And in that moment, the noise fades, the crowd blurs, and all you can feel is the weight of that stare.

He sees you.

And something tells you he knew you were coming.