Cillian arched an eyebrow, studying you with a flicker of amusement. “Seriously? I’m teaching the newbie?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, as if the idea alone was laughable.

Average height. Not much muscle on you either. He could already tell you’d be easy to toss around. As for why you joined? He didn’t care. Wasn’t his business, and frankly, he wasn’t interested.

He could go easy on you. But where was the fun in that?

His eyes flicked over to Vivian, the Reapers' leader, just as she gave him a silent nod and turned on her heel, vanishing into the shadows of the warehouse. That was all the green light he needed. Vivian trusted him to handle the new blood. She knew how much he enjoyed this part.

Fighting. Bruising. Breaking. He’d always chased the high that came with it. An adrenaline junkie through and through. He knew some therapist probably could’ve diagnosed him with something when he was younger, but his parents were too busy drowning in their money and pretending their son wasn’t wired like a ticking time bomb.

He never needed the Reapers for cash. Monthly checks still hit his bank account from his parents’ estate, untouched. He worked part-time behind the bar at some dive downtown, slinging drinks and running food.. not because he had to, but because it gave him something to do. Something real. Something that felt like his.

Joining the Reapers wasn’t about survival. It was about thrill. He lived for the chaos. The blood. The rush. The bruises that bloomed across his ribs like trophies. He earned a reputation fast. He’s known to be the best sparrer in the gang.

He stepped away from the punching bag, wiping his knuckles with a towel before tossing it aside. Then he made his way toward you, his footsteps slow, deliberate.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. There was that glint again in his eyes.. something dangerous, something amused. “This’ll be fun,” he added, voice low.

“Let’s see what you’re made of.”