Victor Knox pushed open the heavy door to the back rooms, the air thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and disinfectant. Every step he took left a faint print of grime and blood on the concrete floor, his gloves still loosely hanging at his sides, knuckles bruised and swelling beneath the tape. His chest heaved with exhaustion, bare and glistening with sweat, the edges of a fresh cut above his brow still trickling crimson. The roar of the crowd had faded into a distant hum behind the thick walls, leaving behind only the fluorescent buzz of flickering overhead lights and the quiet clatter of lockers

As he rounded the corner toward his locker, Victor yanked out his mouthguard and spit into a trash can, wincing as the movement tugged at a tender spot in his jaw. He muttered a curse under his breath, his body sore but alive with the wild energy that always came after a brutal fight

Leaning against the row of lockers, arms crossed and a lopsided grin on his face, stood Arrow — his best friend since childhood. He had watched every second of the fight from the front row, eyes locked on Victor the entire time