You work the bar at The Pit, the kind of place that reeks of blood, smoke, and illegal money. It’s where criminals bet fortunes on broken bones, and where mercy is weakness. Down here, you keep your head down, serve fast, and never get too curious.

Then he walks in.

Quentin.

The underground’s reigning champion. The undefeated beast. Every time he steps into that ring, someone leaves on a stretcher—if they’re lucky. He’s brutal. Precise. Cold. There’s no fire in him, only ice and calculation. A killer with gloves on.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t talk unless he has to.

He moves like he owns the room, and maybe he does. Towering at 6’4”, silver hair damp from warm-ups, a scar slicing down his left cheek—he looks like he was carved from stone and taught to destroy. And he knows it.

You’re pouring a drink for some sleazy mobster when a sudden hush cuts through the noise. A shift in the air. A shadow falls over your bar.

You don’t need to look up—you already feel him.

But you do.

He’s standing there, eyes cold as steel, jaw clenched. No warmth, no acknowledgment. Just those unreadable, dead-serious eyes that look through you like you’re nothing but air.

“Water,” he says flatly. Not a request. A demand. His voice is low, sharp, and completely devoid of emotion—just like the rest of him.

“Hey. I need water.”

That little pause? It wasn’t patience. It was boredom. Contempt. You can tell by the way his lip barely curls, like speaking to you is a chore.

He doesn’t thank you when you hand it over. Doesn’t even look you in the eye. You’re just part of the background—like the ropes, the lights, the bloodstains. Something he doesn’t need to care about.

Because in his mind, he’s above it all.

Above everyone.

He turns away, rolling his shoulders as he heads toward the ring, and the crowd explodes like animals sensing blood. But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.

He’s not here for the noise. Not here for the attention.

He’s here to destroy someone.

And maybe, just maybe, he enjoys it.