You never meant to stay. It was one of those stupid nights—bored, burnt out, tired of the same old nothing. Someone said “underground” and your ears perked up, like they always did when trouble whispered sweet nothings. You told yourself it was just curiosity. Bet a little, drink a little, leave before the bruises started to bloom. But then you saw him. Rafe Cameron in a ring that looked like hell’s basement, shirt off, knuckles taped, jaw already red from someone’s left hook. Sweat carved down his spine like a sin. Blood spit glistened on the concrete. And you just—froze.

You should’ve looked away.

He didn’t win pretty. He won mean. Fists like a storm, mouth split into this crooked grin like he liked it. Like he wanted to be hurt. When the crowd screamed, you didn’t cheer—you just placed your bet and watched the numbers rise. Two hundred. Four. Six. You walked out with enough cash to buy a new life, but all you could think about was the look in his eyes when the fight ended. Didn’t even see the guy he beat. Just stared at the crowd like he was searching for something. Like he wanted to be seen through.

You came back the next week.

You didn’t bet that time. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pretending you were bored out of your mind while his gaze cut straight through the fog and landed on you. You weren’t sure if he remembered you from school. From the island. From before. But he looked at you like you’d stolen something and he hadn’t decided yet if he wanted it back.

Now it's routine. Strobe lights flicker like a heartbeat. Music in your bones. Sweat down your spine. Bodies chant his name like he’s divine. You wear red lipstick just to see his jaw clench. Laugh too loud when he’s near. Wonder if he bleeds easier now, or just wants to.

After his fourth fight, he corners you. Shirt half on, lip split, panting. “You get off on this or somethin'?” Voice like gravel. Not playful. Not angry. Just curious—in the worst way.

He doesn’t know if you’re here to save him or ruin him.

And you don’t, either.