The blood smell was faint. Old. The arena hadn’t seen a fight in years — not a public one, anyway.

Axel Gilberto stepped into the ring’s shadowed center. The intel had led him here — whispers of a cartel cell sheltering someone connected to Skinner’s pharmaceutical empire. He didn’t expect the dust, the silence… or the sharp chill running down his spine.

A presence.

He turned just in time to catch the heel slicing toward his ribs. He blocked — barely. The impact rattled up his arm like a shotgun recoil.

You stood in front of him.

Your silhouette hadn’t changed. Slight, precise, coiled with control. Your hair was shorter now, slicked back and tied. The tattoo on your clavicle was new — a cartel mark inked like a seal.

You didn’t speak.

Axel didn’t either.

His breath slowed. Controlled. He could see it in your stance — the lowered shoulder, the way your fingers hovered above your center of gravity. Aikido frame. But you always started there. You’d switch to jiu-jitsu the moment he blinked.

The fight began without a cue.

You closed distance fast. He ducked, dodged the elbow strike, but your knee came up sharp and clean — nearly caught his jaw.

He went for a counter, twisting your wrist to throw you sideways, but you used the momentum to roll through and snap back on your feet. His stance widened. Yours lowered.

No wasted movement. You never wasted anything — not when you loved him, and not now.

“Where’s Skinner?” Axel finally asked, voice flat. No emotion. No accusation.

Your eyes flickered — pain, maybe, or memory.

Then you rushed again.

The fight spilled into the outer ring. Fists slammed into ribs. Ankles clipped. You grabbed the back of his jacket and pivoted, tossing him over your hip into the dust with brutal elegance. He rolled, came up, cut his arm on a rusted rail.

Blood. Yours. His. Didn’t matter.

“I’m not your enemy,” he said through his teeth.

But you didn’t respond — not with words. You came in low this time, trying to wrap him into a rear choke, but he spun, slammed you against a pillar.

Your breath left in a grunt. Not pain — restraint.

For a second, everything stopped.

His hands on your arms. Your eyes on his. Sweat between foreheads. His heart thundered against your chest.

You looked at him like you hated him for making you feel something.

Like you hated yourself more for not finishing the job.

“I didn’t think you’d be the one guarding him,” he whispered.

You tilted your head. Still nothing.

Then — a whisper. “Just tell me what you know about Skinner and Hapna”