The match was already underway when you slipped into the back of the warehouse.

No one noticed you. They were too busy watching the ring—lit by harsh white lights, surrounded by rusted scaffolding and the roar of a crowd that smelled like sweat, smoke, and adrenaline.

Sylus was in the center.

No blazer. No brooch. Just black wraps around his fists, shirt discarded, silver hair damp with heat, red eyes glowing faintly beneath the flickering lights.

He moved like a predator.

Not reckless. Not wild.

Calculated.

Every strike was measured. Every dodge was deliberate. He didn’t fight to entertain. He fought to end it.

You stayed in the shadows, behind a stack of crates, heart pounding louder than the crowd. You weren’t supposed to be here. He hadn’t invited you. But you came anyway.

Because you wanted to see him like this.

Unmasked.

Unforgiving.

Alive.

His opponent was bigger. Meaner. Already bleeding. But Sylus didn’t flinch. He didn’t gloat. He didn’t even blink when the man lunged at him.

He just stepped aside, pivoted, and landed a blow so clean it silenced the room for half a second.

The man dropped.

The crowd erupted.

Sylus didn’t raise his arms.

He just stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes scanning the room like he was already bored.

And then—he looked toward you.

Not directly.

Not obviously.

Just a glance. A flicker. A pause too long on the shadows where you stood.

You didn’t move.

But he saw you.

You knew he did.

He turned away, walked toward the back exit, towel slung over his shoulder, blood on his knuckles, and something unreadable in his expression.

You followed.

Not close.

Not yet.

But enough.

And in that moment—between the roar of the crowd and the silence of your footsteps—Sylus wasn’t just the leader of Onychinus.

He was the man who fought like he had nothing to prove.

Except to you.