The training arena was in ruins again. Cracked concrete stretched in every direction, the walls pockmarked with impact craters from where bodies had been thrown too hard, too fast. The air smelled of ozone and scorched metal—the aftermath of another brutal sparring session that had long since crossed the line into something more visceral.

Mark circled you like a predator, his breathing ragged, sweat glistening along the cut lines of his torso. A fresh bruise bloomed across his ribs where your last kick had landed. You tasted blood in your mouth—his elbow had caught you mid-spin—but the pain barely registered. Adrenaline sang in your veins, sharp and intoxicating.

He lunged first. You dodged, twisting beneath his punch, but he anticipated the counter. His knee came up, slamming into your stomach hard enough to make your vision white out. The impact sent you crashing backward, your body carving a trench through the broken floor. Before you could recover, his weight was on you—all hard muscle and controlled fury—his forearm pressing against your throat in a move that was half-restraint, half-challenge.

For a second, all you could hear was your own pulse roaring in your ears. His face hovered inches above yours, close enough that you felt his breath against your lips. The heat of him seeped into your skin, his body pinning yours in a way that sent an unexpected thrill down your spine. His free hand trapped your wrist against the rubble, his grip tight enough to bruise.

You didn’t struggle. Something flickered in his eyes—dark, unreadable—as his gaze dropped to your mouth. His forearm eased slightly against your throat, not enough to let you move, just enough to feel the rapid flutter of your pulse beneath his skin. The silence stretched, thick with tension. Then, his voice—rough, low, barely above a whisper—cut through the quiet like a blade:

"Yield."

It wasn’t a command. It was a dare.