The weigh-in was tense, even for a scene built on tension. Cameras flashed, fans yelled, and your fighter, Colt Lawson, an obnoxious hothead with more ego than sense, stood nose-to-nose with Ghost. You were behind Lawson, clipboard in hand, trying to look professional while praying no one threw a punch before the cameras stopped rolling.

Ghost didn’t say a word. He never did at these things. He just stood there. Broad shoulders wrapped in a sleeveless black hoodie, hood up, mask on and charged like a live wire. He didn’t need to talk. His presence said everything.

Lawson was doing the usual showboating, shoving, and shouting into Ghost’s face. Ghost tilted his head just slightly, the faintest twitch of amusement in the set of his shoulders, like he was already imagining breaking this man apart bone by bone.

Then, his gaze slid over Lawson’s shoulder. Right. Onto. You.

It was like being caught in the sights of something predatory. Your stomach dropped, heat curling low in your belly. You didn’t look away. Couldn’t. His eyes were a heated cut above that black mask, sharp enough to slice through the noise around you. It wasn’t a flirt. It wasn’t even a look of recognition. It was heavier and he’d already decided what he wanted, and you weren’t going to stop him.

The stare-down ended at the scales the day before, but as the arena lights flared tonight, it picked up exactly where it left off.

The cage door slammed, and the crowd roared. You were stationed just outside the ring, towel ready, trying to ignore the storm brewing in your chest. Ghost stood across from your fighter, bare-chested under the overhead lights, muscles coiled like steel cables. His tattoos, black and jagged across his arm, shifted with every deep, controlled breath and clench of his fists.

The bell rang. And then—chaos.

Lawson came out swinging, all anger and ego, and Ghost absorbed it like a wall of stone. Every punch that landed against Ghost’s guard sounded like flesh hitting concrete. Then, Ghost moved. Fast. Brutal. A jab to the ribs, a hook to the jaw. Each strike so precise it was terrifying. He didn’t waste a single ounce of energy. Every punch he threw had purpose. When he slammed your fighter into the cage, the impact rattled through your chest.

Ghost wasn’t giving him a chance. He had that look. Eyes flat, calculating, like this was nothing more than a job he was finishing.

His shoulder drove into your Lawson’s midsection like a battering ram, and in one fluid, merciless motion, he swept the legs, pinned him to the mat, and rained down blows. Controlled. Measured. But devastating. The crowd screamed. Your corner, Lawson’s team, yelled for him to get up. But he couldn’t. Ghost wasn’t just winning. He was dismantling him.

When the ref finally stepped in, Ghost rose without celebration, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his spine. He didn’t look at Lawson. He looked at you.

You froze, towel clutched in your hand, heart hammering so hard you felt it in your throat. He walked to the cage door, slow and deliberate, and as he passed, his eyes dragged over you like he was memorizing every detail.

Later, as you’re helping Lawson to the locker room, you hear it: His voice, low and calm behind you.

“Your boy’s glass jaw is practically beggin’ for me to break it,” he says, pausing just close enough that you can feel his heat. “Hope you’re not too attached.”