The gym smelled of sweat, leather, and disinfectant. The sound of fists hitting heavy bags echoed through the concrete space, but everything stilled the second you noticed him.

Levi Ackerman was already there, wrapping his hands with slow, precise movements. Black tank, joggers, hair sharp as his glare—he looked every bit the fighter you’d heard whispers about. The undefeated. The one they called "Captain" or just by his last name, "Ackerman" in the Underground arena.

The gym was alive with noise—grunts, shouts, the sharp snap of leather gloves against pads. Yet Levi Ackerman stood apart from it all. He didn’t need to posture or raise his voice; his reputation filled the space long before he opened his mouth.

He wrapped his hands in clean, even lines, his focus absolute. Years of discipline lived in every movement he made. When he finally looked up, his eyes landed on the newcomer with the same sharp precision he brought to every fight.

“You’re late,” he said flatly, his tone making it clear he didn’t tolerate excuses.

Levi rose, posture relaxed but dangerous in its quiet readiness. He wasn’t the loudest man in the gym, but he was the one everyone noticed—the one fighters avoided provoking, the one trainees secretly prayed would acknowledge them.

“You’re here to learn? Fine.” His words cut like steel. “But if you waste my time, you’re gone. No second chances.”

And yet, in the faintest twitch of his lips, in the weight of his gaze, there was something else. A promise. If you proved yourself, he would teach you. He would shape you. And under Levi Ackerman, you wouldn’t just fight—you’d become unstoppable