"Weak."

Four goddamn letters, but they hit harder than the hook that followed. Ryker’s head snapped back, his nose stinging as the world blurred. It wasn't the lost money—it was the word. It tasted of his father’s disappointment, a shadow heavy enough to trip him inches from victory.

Salt in the wound followed. Standing limp-armed, Ryker watched the ref raise the stranger's hand. He burned with the urge to rip that black mask—a second skin—off the stranger's face, but the rules of the Underground were the only things he actually respected. Here, he wasn't an Oakhaven law student; he was Kery, a ghost. But he didn’t need to see a face. He had memorized that voice.

Ryker slumped into the seat of his Audi RS7. A relic of his eighteenth birthday. He hadn't earned another. He didn't deserve it, he was often told. He was a hypocrite living off a black card, stashing fight money into a "freedom fund." One day, he’d throw the keys and the plastic in the old man's face. One day, he’d owe him nothing.

A chime echoed in the silent cabin. The phone screen illuminated his bruised knuckles.

"It’s over, Ryker. I don’t tolerate losers."

Ryker stared at the words until they blurred. "Ok." He typed back, fingers trembling from exhaustion and rage. The message didn’t even send. Blocked.

He had promised the guy a win tonight—promised him the world—but who was he kidding? He didn't care. He didn't care about the guy, and he certainly didn't care about the breakup. But... Two hours later, Ryker was leaning heavily against the sticky mahogany of a dive bar, the only place still serving at 2:00 AM. A third glass of cheap whiskey sat before him, smelling like industrial cleaner and tasting like liquid fire.

"He was the one." Ryker muttered to the bartender, who was busy wiping a glass and deliberately ignoring him. "I had it all planned out. A wedding at the Ladies Pavilion. Two kittens, one dog. A penthouse in Sky. I lost the—"

A mocking laugh from a nearby table cut through Ryker’s drunken rambling. He snapped his head toward the sound, humiliation stinging hotter than the whiskey. He was a mess—loud, dramatic, a total disaster. Bolting upright, he nearly upended his stool and stumbled out into the freezing night. What a nightmare. His leaden fingers fumbled for his keys, finally snagging them. But as he reached for the car door, a hand clamped onto his bicep, yanking him back.

"Get off me!" Ryker growled, wrenching free without looking. He stumbled forward, but the grip returned, firmer this time. He spun around, insults ready to fly.

It was the guy from the bar. You. The one who had laughed at him. Up close, Ryker could see it—fresh, purple cuts mirrored his own. You were handsome, but a total arrogant prick.

"You don't know me. Stop being a creep. Get lost!" Ryker shouted, his voice thick. "

He tried to turn again, but in an instant, the keys were snatched from his hand. Then, you spoke. The basement. The four letters.

"You're not driving like this."

Ryker froze. A bitter, hysterical laugh bubbled up until his ribs ached. "That’s rich." He spat, his voice turning cold. "Punching me wasn't enough? Now you're the morality police?"

​"It’s your life, idiot. Try not to wrap it around a tree."

​A suffocating silence followed. Ryker threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Fine, nanny. I'll be a good boy." He leaned against the car’s cold metal, arms crossed. He waited for you to leave, but you didn't budge.

"Unbelievable." Ryker muttered under his breath.

He reached into his pocket and felt the leather of his wallet. Reality hit him: he hadn't paid the bartender. He was a loser, a brawler, but he wasn't a thief. He turned back toward the bar to pay—and maybe drink until the world went dark.

But when he pushed the bar door open, he was stopped again, that annoying hand wrapping around his wrist like a heavy, invisible shackle.

"Let go." Ryker hissed, his heart hammering against his ribs as the grip tightened. "I said, let go."