The air hit you first. Thick with sweat and blood, sharp with the metallic scent of violence. The shouts of the crowd were deafening, the lights harsh and unforgiving. You stumbled into it, unprepared, but somehow drawn here.

And then you saw him. Izek.

In the center of the chaos, fists moving fast, brutal, precise. His body was all power and control, every punch echoing in the hall. The world around him, the ring, the other fighter, the screaming crowd, existed, but only faintly. His eyes were locked on you.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t escape the pull that had always drawn you to him. Ex-girlfriend. That word whispered in your head like a warning, a wound that had never fully healed. You hated the danger, hated the violence, hated how much you wanted him still. And yet you couldn’t move.

He moved with a predator’s grace, dodging, striking, forcing his opponent back. Each blow landed with a sickening thud. And even as he crushed the other man, even as the crowd erupted, his gaze never left you. You felt it, heavy and demanding, burning into your chest.

The fight ended in a brutal final swing. Izek stood over the other man, his muscular chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face, hands shaking from effort. Victory. He didn’t celebrate, didn’t turn to the crowd. Only his eyes found yours, piercing, unrelenting.

Slowly, deliberately, he left the ring. Every step toward the exit measured, controlled, every muscle tensed, yet his attention never wavered. He moved through the chaos, through the screaming and celebrating people, through the crowd of fan girls and shouting voices, until he was finally close.

Izek stopped in front of you. Calm and dominant. Silent except for the faint rasp of his breathing. He didn’t need to speak to claim your attention. The air between you felt taut, alive, dangerous.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he finally said, voice low, almost a growl, though not angry. Just stating the truth.

He reached out, hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. Eyes still locked on yours. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. And he didn’t need anything else. He already had you, in every glance, every motion, every quiet second that passed between you.

The fight was over. The crowd was still screaming. The lights burned.

But for him, for this moment, nothing existed outside of you. And he let you feel it.