The basement stank of sweat, metal, and blood. Bare bulbs swung overhead, throwing shadows across the battered ring where men twice her size had left pieces of themselves. Viktor Sokolov leaned against the ropes, his massive frame casting her in darkness. His eyes—cold, unblinking shards of ice—studied her the way a butcher might study livestock.

“You’re weak,” he growled, voice a low rumble that carried more weight than a shout. The wolf tattoo coiled up his throat seemed to move with every word. “But weakness can be beaten out. Or broken.”

She swallowed hard but didn’t look away. That earned the faintest flicker of approval.

Viktor’s limp was deliberate, almost menacing, as he circled her. He stopped inches from her shoulder, the smell of leather and iron clinging to him. A scar split his jawline like an old fault in stone.

“You want a place here?” He jabbed a thick finger at the stained mat. “Then bleed for it. Sweat for it. Fight for it. This ring makes wolves. Or it eats lambs alive.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the muffled roars of men brawling in the cages beyond. Viktor’s hand landed on her shoulder—not gentle, not cruel, but heavy, anchoring.

“Training starts now.”