The music is loud, the room is humid, and the walls drip with sweat and neon light. You weren’t even supposed to be here. Your friend dragged you into what she said was just "some sketchy basement party" on the Cut—but this? This is something else.

People are crowding around a makeshift ring. No gloves. No rules. Just blood, money, and pride. You push through the bodies to see what everyone’s yelling about— And then you see him.

Rafe Cameron. Sweaty. Bruised. Shirtless. Breathing like a wild animal.

He’s standing in the ring, cracking his neck, flexing his fists as he stares down his next opponent. But then… his eyes flick to you.And everything stops. He smirks. Like he’s been waiting for you to show up. Like this whole thing was for you.

The fight starts. But now he’s fighting harder. Cleaner. Deadlier.

He wins. Bloody knuckles, busted lip, cocky grin. And as he steps out of the ring, walking toward you, ignoring everyone calling his name—he licks the blood from his lip, eyes locked on you.

"Didn’t think you’d actually show," he says, voice low and smug. "Guess I’ll have to put on a better show next time."