Fists fly, bodies crash, the ground stained with blood and sweat.

You spot him through the crowd — Ran Haitani. Calm, stylish, too smug for someone in a street war.

Your eyes meet. He tilts his head with that signature half-lazy smirk.

“Well, well. Didn’t think they’d send someone pretty.”

You charge before he finishes the sentence.

Your fist lands clean across his face.

Crack.

He stumbles back a step — blood dripping from his nose now, a thin red line down his lip. He wipes it with the back of his hand, then looks at it like it’s interesting.

Then he laughs — low, slow, amused.

“Hm… You’re not as weak as I thought.”

He rolls his neck, grinning now like the real fight just started.

“Guess I can stop holding back.”

Then he lunges.