piece of peace

With each step closer, the music’s beat grows heavier and lower, like your own heartbeat. There’s no reason to be scared—just cautious—as you sneak a glance at a bald, muscular man who looks intoxicated and ready to chew someone’s head off.

This is no fancy club. There are no velvet ropes, no long lines, no excitement lingering in the air. At least, not for you.

If it weren’t for a twist of events, you would never come here voluntarily. Your outfit says otherwise, though.

You stand close to your friends, practically glued to their sides, as the man who looks like a straight-up junkie moves toward the club’s door. Oh, he’s the bouncer.

As he eyes all of you with empty orbs, part of you wishes he would turn you away and not let you enter this place. Your wish isn’t fulfilled. The bouncer gives Mario a curt nod, and that’s all it takes for your friend to lead the way.

As soon as the door opens, the music becomes sharper and clearer. There’s only a small space before it leads downstairs to the basement. This place is everything a mother would tell you to avoid.

Good thing you don’t have one.

Neon lights grow more visible with each step, covering the floor in flickering electric pink, acid green, and colors you don’t even get to notice as they shift too quickly. As you make it down to the main room, your mouth drops—and so does your heart.

The place is packed, so much so that it makes you question if it’s really that good. The exterior alone—the entire neighborhood—is just not it. How does Mario even know a place like this? How does he even know this part of town?

You make a mental note to question him later, because he sure as hell didn’t mention any of it. All he said was that the booze is cheap and the place is fine. If leaving means paying more for the few shots you’re about to have, so be it.

From the looks of it, everyone else is on board and follows him.

The air is thick with a mixture of scents you can’t even name. There’s a distinct smell of cigarettes, weed, and perfume—the rest, you’d rather not identify. By the time you’re out of here, you’ll reek of this place and probably have to burn the nice dress you’re wearing.

Mario promised he was only dropping something off, so this should be quick— in and out. It should be quick enough for you to grab a drink and hopefully head somewhere else.

El leans closer, her shoulder bumping into yours as she tries to be heard over the pounding music. Her voice still barely cuts through it.

“What is this place?”

You follow her gaze—and that’s when you see it.

Ahead of you, past the blur of bodies and neon light, there’s a ring. Not the kind you’d expect. Not clean, not professional. A fence cages it in completely, metal bars rising high enough to make it feel less like a sport and more like containment. Like whatever goes in there isn’t supposed to get out.

It looks barbaric. Primal. Like it was built for animals.

And the people gathered around it—too many, too eager—aren’t just passing by. They’re waiting.

You swallow, leaning in so El can hear you.

“It looks like a nightmare.”

El lets out a short breath that might be a laugh, might be something else. She tilts her head, eyes scanning the ring with something closer to curiosity than concern.

“I’ve been to worse.”

For once, you don’t question her.

El’s always been the one to drift into places like this without hesitation, coming back with stories she tells like they’re nothing—like they didn’t happen. You used to think she exaggerated.

Now, standing here, you’re not so sure.

The crowd shifts, tightening around the fence as if pulled by the same invisible string. Someone shoves past you, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to them. Another voice shouts something you can’t make out, swallowed whole by the bass.

You glance around for Mario, but he’s already a few steps ahead, carving a path like he belongs here.

That doesn’t sit right.

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides, the fabric of your dress suddenly feeling too thin, too out of place in a room like this. The air presses in, thick and suffocating, buzzing with anticipation.

Whatever is about to happen in that ring—

You’re not sure you want to see it.

But the crowd isn’t leaving.

And neither are you.

Mario weaves through the crowd like he’s done it a hundred times, barely checking if you and El are still behind him. You push through shoulders and elbows, the press of bodies tightening the closer you get to the fenced ring.

He finally stops, gesturing toward a narrow stretch of space wedged between a rusted railing and a couple already arguing over something you can’t hear.

“Here.”

Seats is a generous word. It’s more like a claimed patch of ground—third row, if you had to guess. Not close enough to touch the fence, but close enough that whatever happens in there won’t be easy to ignore.

You glance toward the ring again.

Up close, it’s worse.

The ground inside looks… wrong. Like it’s been scraped clean over and over again. The surface is uneven, rough in places—but there are faint traces that didn’t quite disappear. Darker patches. Stains that the dim, flickering lights can’t fully hide.

Your stomach tightens.

Mario claps his hands once, like he’s wrapping something up. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What do you mean stay here? What the hell is this place?”

He sighs, but it’s not sharp or annoyed—more like he just doesn’t have the energy for this right now. His eyes flick briefly toward the ring, then back to you.

“I’ll get you your drinks,” he says, already half-turning away. “What d’you want?”

You hesitate, glancing around again—the crowd, the fence, the floor inside the ring.

“I’m not sure I want to drink anything from this place.”

El snorts beside you, loud enough to earn a glance from someone nearby.

Mario rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a snob.”

You scoff immediately. “I’m not—”

“We’ll have vodka,” El cuts in, waving a hand like she’s sealing the deal.

Mario nods once, like that settles everything, and disappears back into the crowd before you can argue further.

For a second, it’s just you and El, the noise, the heat—

And then the music cuts.

Just like that.

A sharp hum of feedback cuts through the silence, and a man’s voice follows, loud and grating through the speakers.

“Alright, alright—eyes up!”

You look toward the ring.

The man holding the microphone steps into the light, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you should take him seriously. He looks like he’s somewhere in his forties, head completely shaved, his clothes hanging off him like they don’t belong to him—too big, too worn, sleeves slipping past his wrists. The kind of outfit that looks like it was pulled from one of those street donation bins, the ones meant for charity but always picked through before anything gets there.

He has that same look, too.

Like the kind of guy you’d cross the street to avoid.

But here—here, he owns the room.

“Welcome, you animals!” he shouts, grinning wide enough to show crooked teeth. “You came hungry tonight, yeah?”

A laugh almost slips out of you.

It’s not even that funny—but something about the way he says it, like he means it, like he’s not talking to the crowd but about them, hits in a strange way. Humor, sharp and dry, cuts through the unease curling in your stomach.

Because you already have a feeling what that ring is for.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

The reaction is instant.

The crowd erupts—loud, aggressive, overwhelming. It slams into you from all sides, so intense it makes you flinch. It’s not just cheering. It’s something rougher. Hungrier.

You hadn’t realized how many men were packed into this place until now. Your stomach twists.

The man laughs into the mic, feeding off it. “That’s what I like to hear!”

He paces along the edge of the fenced ring, dragging the moment out before throwing one arm toward the entrance on the opposite side.

“Let’s not waste time. Get ready for your first fighter of the night—give it up for…” he pauses, milking it, “…Blue Viper!”

The name hits, and the crowd roars again.

A man steps into the ring.

He’s lean, all sharp lines and defined muscle, abs catching the harsh lights as he moves. Royal blue shorts hang low on his hips, matching gloves already strapped tight around his hands. He lifts his arms the second he steps inside, like he’s already won, soaking in the noise like it belongs to him.

It probably does.

“What the fuck,” you mumble under your breath.

Beside you, El swallows, eyes fixed on the ring.

“How does Mario even know about this place?” you add, quieter now, like saying it too loud might make it worse.

But there’s no time to think. The man with the mic raises his hand again, the crowd slowly settling—not quiet, never quiet, just waiting.

“And his opponent…” he continues, voice dropping just enough to build it back up, “—ah, this one doesn’t need much of an introduction.”

A ripple moves through the crowd. You feel it before you understand it.

“He’s your favorite,” the man grins. “Your undefeated—your JK!”

For a split second, your brain doesn’t catch up.

And then—

The crowd explodes. Louder than before. Wilder. People shouting, pushing forward, fists hitting the fence.

The fence door screeches as it’s pulled open.

And then he steps in.

JK.

The noise swells instantly, people pressing closer, shouting his name like it means something—like he means something. But he doesn’t even acknowledge it. Not a glance, not a flicker. His focus is locked straight ahead.

On his opponent.

He moves like he already knows how this ends.

Every step is controlled, deliberate. His body shifts under the harsh lights, all muscle and definition—abs tight, arms flexing with even the smallest movement. There’s no wasted motion in him. No nerves. Just quiet, coiled readiness.

His opponent tries to hold his ground, but you catch it—the slight tension in his stance, the way his shoulders tighten under JK’s stare.

Like he already feels it.

Up close, you catch more of him. A sharp jawline, clean and defined, his expression unreadable. When he turns slightly, the line of his back comes into view—lean, strong, every muscle moving under his skin like it’s carved there.

You hate to admit it.

But—yeah. He’s hot.

And apparently, you’re not the only one who noticed.

You glance at El, and—

Right. Of course.

She’s staring at him like she just found religion, eyes practically sparkling.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes. “Suddenly I like being here.”

You snort, shaking your head, even though your own attention has definitely sharpened.

Still…

Your gaze drifts back to the ring, to the fence, to the crowd pressing in like this is the only thing that matters. You’re not sure you like this.

Because it’s obvious now. This isn’t just some weird club attraction. This is underground fighting—illegal, brutal, the kind of thing people don’t talk about in daylight.

And somehow, Mario brought you here.

Of all places.

Your brows pull together slightly as you scan the crowd again, unease settling back in.

Mario has always had… questionable connections. The kind you and El never really asked about, choosing instead to ignore whatever didn’t fit into your version of him.

Mario slips back beside you like he never left, pressing a cold glass into your hand. “What’d I miss?” he asks, far too casually.

You turn to him immediately, irritation rising. “What the hell is this, Mario? What are we doing here—and how did you think this was a good idea?”

He exhales, already looking like he doesn’t want to deal with this conversation, but you don’t let up.

“Seriously. This place—this isn’t normal.”

El doesn’t even glance at him. Her attention is locked on the ring, eyes sharp with interest, like she’s already decided this is worth watching. You, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about the cage, the crowd, the way everyone seemed to be waiting for something violent to happen.

“What is this place?” you ask again, quieter now, but no less firm.

Before he can answer, a sharp bell rings out, cutting through the noise and pulling every ounce of attention back to the ring.

The fight starts instantly. The other guy lunges first, throwing a punch that should land—but JK shifts just enough for it to miss, his movement so subtle it almost looks lazy. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK slips past them with controlled precision, like he’s already mapped out every move before it happens.

You don’t even realize your grip on the glass has tightened until your fingers start to ache. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves—smooth, efficient, completely unbothered. He doesn’t rush or panic, doesn’t even try to overpower. He just watches, waits, and lets the other guy wear himself down.

For a moment, it almost feels intentional, like he’s letting him try.

Taunting him.

The thought settles just as the other man commits to another strike, stepping in harder this time, putting everything behind it—and that’s when JK finally moves forward. His fist connects cleanly, the impact sharp enough to echo even through the roar of the crowd, sending the man stumbling back until his body slams into the fence with a harsh metallic rattle.

The reaction around you is immediate and overwhelming, the crowd exploding with noise that makes your brows pull together as it crashes into you from all sides. But your focus stays on the ring, on the thin line of blood already slipping from the man’s nose, stark against his skin.

Your stomach twists, but not enough to make you look away.

Without thinking, you lift the drink Mario handed you and down it in one go, ignoring the burn, the taste, the suffocating thickness of the air. Your eyes stay locked on the fight, tracking every movement, every shift.

And somewhere in the middle of it, you realize your attention isn’t just caught—

it’s hooked.

The fight doesn’t slow down—it shifts entirely in JK’s favor.

Once the other man hits the ground, something in JK changes. Whatever restraint he had disappears as he follows him down without hesitation, delivering punch after punch with the same controlled force. Each hit lands with a dull, sickening impact, the sound carrying even through the roar of the crowd.

The man barely manages to get his arms up, but it doesn’t do much. Blood spreads quickly—across his face, down his chest, soaking into the already worn surface beneath him. Those faint stains you noticed earlier are no longer subtle. They’re fresh now, darker, undeniable.

JK’s gloves are black, thick. The color hides most of the blood, swallowing it instead of putting it on display, but not entirely. A darker sheen clings to them, catching under the harsh lights every time his fists rise and fall.

Your stomach tightens as the noise around you grows louder, more aggressive, feeding into every hit instead of pulling back from it. It starts to feel like too much—too close, too real, too far past the point where someone should have stepped in already.

“Mario,” you say, leaning toward him, your voice strained as you try to be heard over the chaos. “Is there—do they have a restroom or something?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his attention still fixed on the ring, jaw set like he’s invested in how this ends. For a second, you think he didn’t even hear you, but then he glances over, quick and distracted. “Yeah. Down the hall, to the left.”

You nod, already shifting your weight as you turn to El. “Come with me.”

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even look at you. Her eyes stay locked on the ring, her expression sharper than before, completely absorbed in what’s happening. It catches you off guard, enough that you pause for a second, staring at her like you don’t quite recognize this version of her.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, but she doesn’t react, and it leaves you standing there alone with the noise pressing back in.

Because the fight wasn’t bad at first—it was controlled, almost impressive in a way you didn’t expect—but this is different. This is something else entirely.

Your gaze drifts back to the ring despite yourself, catching the way the man on the ground jerks under another hit, a broken grunt slipping from him as he tries to move, to shield himself, to do anything at all. No one steps in. No one even looks like they’re thinking about it.

A cold thought settles in as you watch.

You hope this isn’t one of those fights—the kind that doesn’t end until someone doesn’t get back up—because the way that man looks right now, barely moving, barely holding on, makes it hard not to think he’s already getting close.

Before you can see anything else, you’ve had enough.

You don’t care how dodgy this place looks anymore—only that you need a second to breathe. The thought crosses your mind, sharp and unwelcome, that walking out alone probably isn’t the smartest idea. A single woman slipping away from a crowd like this doesn’t exactly scream safe. Still, you push it aside, stand up, and follow the direction Mario gave you.

The further you move from the ring, the more the place reveals itself—and none of it is reassuring. The air is thick with alcohol and weed, clinging to the walls, to your skin, to the back of your throat. The dim lighting doesn’t help, casting everything in a dull, grimy glow that makes even the hallway feel like somewhere you shouldn’t be.

You tug your dress down instinctively, suddenly too aware of how short it is, how out of place you feel. The red lipstick you put on earlier now seems like a mistake. If only you had known where you were coming.

The restroom is worse.

One look inside is enough. The smell hits first, then the stained tiles, the flickering light, the general state of neglect that makes your stomach turn. You don’t even consider using it. Instead, you step up to the sink, eyes lifting to the mirror.

You look… composed.

More than you expected, at least. Even with the frown that’s probably been stuck on your face since you walked in, you don’t look shaken. Not on the outside.

You turn on the tap, rinsing your hands out of habit more than anything, the faint taste of vodka still lingering on your tongue. Somewhere in the distance, even from down the hall, you can still hear it—the cheers, muffled but persistent, like a reminder that whatever is happening in that ring hasn’t slowed down.

You don’t want to be here.

But you also don’t want to be left out.

The thought pushes you into motion again. You dry your hands quickly and head back out, picking up your pace as you move down the hallway, unease settling deeper with every step. The walls are lined with old posters, most of them ripped or peeling, leaving behind only fragments—faces without names, events long gone, nothing fully readable.

It only adds to the feeling that you shouldn’t be here.

You’re halfway down when it happens.

You nearly stop in your tracks.

He’s there.

The man from the ring—the one who was just getting beaten—walking toward you like nothing happened. Up close, it’s worse. Blood still clings to him, smeared across his face and chest, his steps uneven, his body barely holding itself together.

And behind him—

The man with the microphone follows, saying something you can’t quite catch.

Your attention snaps forward again.

Because coming straight toward you—

JK.

He’s already out of the ring, moving fast, like the fight meant nothing. The gloves are gone, replaced by white wraps around his hands, slightly darkened in places. His hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin glistening under the dim lights as he closes the distance without slowing down.

For a second, you freeze.

Then instinct kicks in and you step aside quickly, pressing yourself against the wall just as he passes. He doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t acknowledge you at all.

It’s like you’re not even there.

Like if you hadn’t moved—

He would’ve walked straight through you.

Your thoughts barely have time to settle before they’re cut off.

“El—?”

She rushes into view, nearly colliding with you, her expression completely different from the one she had just minutes ago. Whatever excitement she had is gone, replaced with something far more overwhelmed, almost frantic.

“I need the bathroom,” she blurts out, slightly breathless. “Like, right now. I had—shit—I had like three shots in five minutes.”

You blink at her, still catching up. “Where’s Mario?”

El glances back over her shoulder, like she expects him to magically appear behind her. “He said he needed to go too. Just disappeared into the crowd.”

You frown immediately.

Of course he did.

You bite back the first thing that comes to mind, irritation flaring as you glance past her, half-expecting to spot him somewhere down the hall. Nothing. Just the muffled noise from the main room and people moving around like nothing just happened.

Great.

You’ll definitely have to curse him out later—for leaving you alone earlier, even if the whole crowd had still been focused on the fight. At least then, everyone’s attention had been locked on the ring. Now? The fight is over, the tension is shifting, and you don’t even know how to guess who won.

Worse, El could’ve gotten lost in that mess.

Or someone could’ve—

You cut the thought off as your attention sharpens.

Because you can feel it now.

The looks.

They weren’t as obvious before, not when everyone had been too distracted, but now that the focus has broken, it’s different. There aren’t many women here—you’ve noticed that much—and the way some of the men look at you now makes your stomach twist. Lingering stares. Slow, knowing grins that feel far too comfortable.

You scoff under your breath, disgust curling in your chest as you turn back to El.

“The bathroom’s a nightmare,” you warn her. “Like, seriously not usable.”

El groans, clutching her stomach slightly. “I don’t care. My bladder is about to explode.”

Yeah. No arguing with that.

You nod, stepping aside to let her move past you. “Fine. Go. I’ll stay right outside.”

She doesn’t hesitate, already pushing the door open.

You stay put in the hallway, crossing your arms loosely as you position yourself near the wall, trying to look like you belong there more than you feel like you do. The noise from the main room is still there, dulled now, but enough to remind you you’re not completely alone.

Still—

You really hope no one tries to talk to you.

You don’t have to wait long before something shifts again.

Footsteps echo down the hall, heavier this time, more purposeful. A guy comes into view—blonde, maybe mid-twenties, wearing an oversized shirt that hangs loose over a pair of worn jeans. There’s nothing particularly threatening about him at first glance, but the way he carries himself makes people move.

“Get lost,” he says, voice flat, like he’s said it a hundred times before.

The men lingering too close—too interested—pause. You hadn’t even fully clocked how near they were getting until now. One of them mutters something under his breath, low and irritated, but before anything can escalate, a woman slips up beside them. She leans in, whispers something quick into one of their ears.

The reaction is immediate.

Their expressions shift, something greedy lighting up in their eyes, and just like that, they back off, leaving without another glance.

You feel your stomach turn.

Disgust settles in deep as you press your lips together, forcing yourself not to react more visibly. Whatever she said—it worked too easily.

You take a few steps further down the hall, needing the distance, the space. Behind you, the noise from the main room is starting to die down, the chaos thinning out into something more controlled. It sounds like they’re clearing people out, or at least resetting the space for whatever comes next.

That thought alone makes your skin crawl.

Ahead of you, the blonde guy reaches a door—one you hadn’t paid much attention to before—and pushes it open without hesitation.

And for a split second, you see inside.

It’s a medium-sized room, dim but cleaner than the rest of this place, like it serves a different purpose. Your brain barely has time to process the layout before something—someone—snags your attention completely.

Mario.

Standing there like he belongs.

Your breath catches, surprise hitting first, sharp and immediate. So much for the bathroom. He didn’t even come this way—the toilets are further down, you know that now.

But the shock doesn’t stop there.

Because sitting in one of the chairs—

JK.

Up close, under better light, he looks just as composed as he did in the ring, even now. Someone—a young guy, too young if you’re being honest—is crouched in front of him, carefully unwrapping the white tape from his hands. The fabric is stained in places, and as it comes loose, you catch glimpses of reddened skin underneath.

The kid works quickly, like he knows what he’s doing, like this is routine.

Of course it is.

Nothing about this place is legal. Nothing about it is normal.

Your eyes flick back to Mario, disbelief settling in heavier now. He lied. Not even well—just enough to get away from you and El without questions.

Before you can take in anything else, the door swings shut.

You’re left staring at it, mouth slightly open, like your brain hasn’t caught up to what you just saw.

Mario. In there. With him.

“El?”

She comes back a second later, pushing the bathroom door open with a relieved sigh. “Ready?”

You turn to her, still half-stunned. “I—there’s a room down here. Mario’s in it. And… the guy who was in the ring is in there too.”

El freezes. “What?”

“And some kid—like, actually a kid—is cleaning him up. I don’t even—” You shake your head, trying to piece it together. “This is weird.”

El blinks a few times, processing, then shrugs slightly. “Maybe Mario just knows people here?”

You stare at her. “That doesn’t make it less weird.”

She hesitates, glancing between you and the closed door. “So… what are we doing? Waiting?”

You frown, something in you snapping into place. You’re done waiting. Done being brushed off, lied to, dragged somewhere without knowing why.

Without another word, you step forward and push the door open.

The reaction is immediate.

Conversation cuts off mid-sentence. Every head in the room turns toward you, like you just walked into something you weren’t supposed to see.

Mario looks the worst out of all of them—caught, completely unprepared. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.

Your gaze shifts past him.

JK is still sitting, his hands half-unwrapped, the young guy working on them pausing mid-motion. For a second, he doesn’t even acknowledge you. His eyes stay lowered, focused on his hands—

Then he looks up.

Your eyes meet, just briefly. Long enough for something to register—sharp, assessing. His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, before his expression tightens slightly, like he’s already decided you don’t belong here.

“And what are you doing here?” the blonde man asks, voice flat, almost tired, like this is an inconvenience.

El hovers just behind your shoulder, peeking in, her eyes going wide the second they land on JK. “Fuck,” she whispers, not nearly as quiet as she probably thinks.

You don’t react to her.

Your attention is locked on Mario now. “I should be asking you that.”

He winces slightly, like he expected that, but still doesn’t have a good answer.

The men in the room don’t miss the tension, the way your eyes narrow, the way Mario shifts under it. Something clicks between them, unspoken.

The blonde man exhales sharply, already over it. “Listen, you have no place being here.” His gaze flicks to Mario. “Take your bitches out of here.”

“Excuse me?” you scoff immediately, offense flaring hot and fast. The word hits wrong—too casual, too familiar, like it’s something he says often.

He doesn’t even react. If anything, he looks bored, like he’s seen this exact reaction a hundred times before.

Maybe he has.

“Look, just—give us a minute,” Mario cuts in quickly, stepping forward like he’s trying to manage damage control. “I’ll come out and explain, okay?”

“And wait out there? With all the junkies?” you shoot back, anger creeping in sharper now. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Your patience is gone.

Before Mario can respond, movement pulls your attention again.

JK stands.

The shift in the room is subtle, but it’s there. He rolls his shoulders once, flexing his hands slightly as the young guy quickly gathers the bloodied wraps and cotton, tossing them aside.

“Take this outside,” JK says, voice low and steady, carrying easily through the room.

It’s not loud, but it doesn’t need to be. It lands heavy anyway.

He doesn’t look at anyone again.

Just walks past, disappearing through another door without a second thought.

Silence lingers for a second after he’s gone.

Then the blonde man steps forward slightly, already done with this entire situation. “I’ll be in touch,” he says curtly, though it’s clearly meant for Mario. His gaze flicks back to you and El, sharp, unimpressed. “Out.”

He gestures toward the door, not even pretending to be polite about it.

It’s not an offer.

It’s an order.

You let out a sharp scoff, already drawing breath to snap back at the blonde man—because who the hell does he think he is—but El is faster. Her hand wraps around your wrist, fingers tightening in warning, and at the same time Mario steps in, grabbing your shoulders and steering you back.

“Hey—” you start, but he’s already pushing you out.

The door shuts behind you with a dull thud.

You turn on him immediately.

“What the actual fuck, Mario?”

He exhales, dragging a hand over his face. “Not here.”

“Oh, not—” you scoff, ready to go off, but he’s already moving, heading down the hall like he expects you to follow.

You do. Of course you do.

El stays close, unusually quiet now, her earlier excitement completely gone. The hallway feels different on the way back—emptier, colder somehow. By the time you reach the main area, it’s almost unrecognizable. The crowd is gone, replaced by only a few people cleaning up like nothing ever happened. Trash is being swept, bottles collected, and in one corner, you catch a glimpse of a stack of cash being counted and shoved into a duffle bag.

That’s enough.

You don’t say anything as you follow Mario out, but the second the cold air hits your skin, it’s like everything snaps back into focus. You step forward quickly, grabbing his forearm and forcing him to stop.

“Speak,” you demand.

He looks at you—not angry, not defensive. Just… tired. Defeated, almost.

“Not here, please,” he says quietly. “Let’s just go back to my place.”

Your eyes narrow immediately. The way he glances around, quick and subtle, doesn’t help.

Alarms go off in your head.

You don’t agree, not really—but you don’t argue either. Not yet.

The car ride is silent. Tense. The kind of silence that presses in on you, heavy with everything that hasn’t been said. El sits beside you, staring out the window, unusually still, like she’s replaying everything in her head. You don’t interrupt. You’re doing the same.

By the time you reach Mario’s building, the quiet hasn’t lifted.

It follows you all the way into his apartment.

The door closes behind you, and just like that, the outside world is gone—but the tension stays, thick in the air, waiting.

Mario moves first, like he needs something to do with his hands. “Tea? Or—something?” he offers, already heading toward the kitchen.

Anything to stall.

You don’t answer right away. You just watch him, arms crossed, expression unmoving. Eventually, you nod once, more out of impatience than acceptance, and take a seat on the couch beside El. She sinks into it quietly, still not saying much, her usual energy replaced with something more withdrawn.

Mario brings the cups over a few minutes later, setting them down carefully in front of you both. You don’t thank him. You don’t even look at the tea.

You just look at him.

He takes the chair opposite you, exhaling slowly before running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think it would escalate like that.”

You cut him off immediately. “What did you think, Mario? That we’d just be okay watching that?” Your voice sharpens. “Did you genuinely think we’d enjoy an illegal fight?”

He blinks, caught off guard for a second. “How do you even know it’s illegal?”

You stare at him, almost incredulous. “Are you serious? Nothing about that place screams legal.”

He doesn’t argue.

So you keep going.

“I thought we were going to a club,” you say, your frustration spilling over now. “And then you change plans last minute, and suddenly we’re standing next to a cage, watching a guy get nearly beaten to death?”

The words hang heavy between you.

Mario exhales again, slower this time, and there’s something in his expression that finally cracks—guilt, maybe. Regret.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “I really am. I just… I had to deal with something, and one of my friends was there. I thought it’d just be a fight. I thought you two might—” he hesitates, then shrugs weakly, “—I don’t know. Enjoy it. You like boxing, right?”

That lands badly.

Because whatever that was—wasn’t just boxing.

You lean back slightly, exhaling through your nose, but the tension doesn’t leave your body. If anything, it settles deeper.

“Why do you even hang around people like that?” you ask, your tone quieter now but no less pointed.

Mario winces a little at that, like he expected it. “I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I really am. I won’t bring you there again. Hell, I probably won’t even go back myself. It was a stupid idea.”

You study him for a second, trying to decide if you believe that.

Then you sigh, some of the edge in you softening, just a little. “I didn’t feel safe there,” you admit. “And it’s a good thing nothing happened to us.”

Your fingers curl slightly around the warm cup, grounding yourself before you add, “What even is that place?”

Mario hesitates, like he’s choosing how honest to be. “It’s… yeah, it’s illegal,” he finally says. “But it’s one of the fastest ways to make money. People go there to bet. Not just that—they go because they like the fights. They want to see something real.”

You let out a quiet scoff. “We clearly have very different ideas of what a good fight is.”

He nods, accepting that. “Listen—it’s usually not like that. It gets stopped before it goes too far. Yeah, some guys don’t look great after, but tonight… tonight was intense. I didn’t know JK was gonna be the one fighting. Usually it’s more… controlled.”

You blink at him, stunned. “Oh my god. How many times have you been there?”

“Not that many,” he says quickly, holding up a hand. “Seriously. But I know it’s not usually like this. There had to be a change of plans when JK showed up. That’s why it was so packed. I should’ve known. I should’ve just left with you the second I realized.”

You shake your head slightly, still trying to process. “Who even is he?”

Mario shrugs. “Just a guy that got popular there. He fights well—really well—and people like watching him. That’s why it gets so crowded when he’s around.”

Your stomach turns at that. “People enjoy watching him beat someone nearly to death?”

“There’s a lot of money involved,” Mario replies, his tone quieter now. “And for some of those guys… it’s easier to earn money that way. One good fight can get you more than a regular job.”

You frown, not convinced. “I don’t get it. I mean, boxing isn’t a bad thing—but when it’s legal. What we saw? There’s a reason that’s not allowed.”

Mario exhales, leaning back in his chair. “The world’s a lot rougher than you think. That place—it’s just one of those corners where people make money however they can.”

You don’t respond to that. Not really.

Instead, you shift your focus, needing something else. “Did you at least deal with your friend? The one you said you had to meet?”

“Yeah,” he nods quickly. “Yeah, that’s done.” He pauses, then adds again, “And I’m sorry. Really. I won’t drag you into something like that again.”

You study him for a moment, then let out a small breath, deciding not to push it further. “Let’s just… hope we’ll laugh about this in twenty years.”

El makes a small sound beside you—half a scoff, half a sip of her tea—and you glance at her.

“Why are you so quiet?” you ask.

She shrugs, staring into her cup for a second before looking up. “I mean… yeah, it was weird. And I definitely wouldn’t go there alone.” She pauses, then adds, almost reluctantly, “But it was kind of interesting to see.”

You drop your head back slightly. “Oh my god.”

El rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile there now. “I’m not saying I want to go back. I don’t. I’d rather we stay far away from that place.” She nudges your arm lightly. “Next time, though? We’re going to an actual club. A good one. We finally convince you to go out, and this is where we end up?”

You huff out a laugh despite yourself, some of the tension finally easing. “Fine. You pick the next place, and I’ll consider going.”

“That’s a yes,” she says immediately.

“It’s a maybe,” you correct, but you’re smiling now.

The night winds down after that, the heaviness of it lingering but not as sharp. You stay over at Mario’s place like usual—nothing new there. You and El take the bed, while he crashes on the couch without complaint.

It should feel normal.

Familiar.

But as you lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, sleep doesn’t come easily.

Because every time you close your eyes, you see it again.

The ring. The blood. The crowd.

And him.

Those dark, steady eyes that barely looked at you—yet somehow linger anyway, slipping into your dreams as the night stretches on, replaying everything like a broken movie you can’t quite turn off.

Life moves on.

Or at least, it pretends to.

In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.

And for a while, neither does that night.

It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.

Still, sometimes it creeps in.

A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?

You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.

The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.

But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.

It becomes just a faint memory.

Something that happened.

Something you don’t talk about.

Life moves on. Or at least, it tries to.

In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.

And for a while, neither does that night.

It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.

Still, sometimes it creeps in. A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?

You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.

The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.

But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.

It becomes just a faint memory. Something that happened. Something you don’t talk about.

Lately, you’ve been seeing El more often. Mario’s been busy, which isn’t unusual. He’s always had something going on, mostly revolving around cars. Buying them, fixing them, flipping them. Old ones, newer ones—it doesn’t really matter. He calls it an investment, says the money always comes back if you know what you’re doing.

And apparently, he does.

Between the cars and whatever connections he’s built over time, he’s become the guy people call when something breaks. You’ve done it yourself. The last time your car had an issue, he fixed it in a day and saved you from dealing with overpriced repair shops and all their nonsense. He’s reliable like that.

Just not always honest.

Tonight, it’s just you and El at one of your usual bars, tucked into a booth that’s a little too worn but familiar enough to feel comfortable. You didn’t feel like drinking, so you’ve been sticking to soda while she’s had a couple of shots.

It reminds you of a phase you’ve already gone through—back when you were younger, figuring out your limits. These days, you don’t really care for it.

El, though, seems off.

At first, you assume it’s her ex. She spent way too long getting over him, and for a moment you wonder if she slipped back into that. But then she checks her phone again. And again. And again.

You watch her for a while before finally speaking up. “Okay, something’s up.”

She barely looks at you. “Nothing’s up.”

“You’ve checked your phone like ten times in five minutes.”

“I’m just waiting for a message.”

“From who?”

She shrugs too quickly. “No one important.”

You don’t buy it, but you don’t push right away. The feeling lingers, though, settling in your chest.

Something’s not right.

By the time the waitress tells you they’re closing, it’s already close to ten. You both gather your things and step outside, the cooler air a relief after the stuffy bar. You start telling her something about work—some pointless drama—but she barely reacts, her attention drifting back to her phone.

Then she checks it again.

You stop mid-sentence and look at her. “Okay, you have one minute. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m dropping you off and going home.”

She laughs nervously, scratching her cheek. “Don’t be mad.”

You roll your eyes. “Just say it.”

“I know where Mario is.”

You blink. “Okay? He’s probably working.”

She exhales, muttering, “He’s gonna kill me for this.”

“El.”

“Okay—he went back there.”

You frown. “Back where?”

Her voice lowers. “The ring.”

You stare at her, still trying to process it, the memory of that place snapping back into focus like it never really left.

“What do you mean, the ring?”

“He’s there. Right now.”

You let out a slow breath, disbelief settling in. Of course he is. After everything he said. After promising he wouldn’t go back.

“Unbelievable.”

El shifts slightly, her grip tightening around her phone. “The thing is… he was supposed to text me. And he hasn’t. It’s been, like, four hours.” She glances at the screen again, like it might suddenly light up. “He promised he would.”

You frown. “Wait—did you know he was going there?”

She hesitates, then nods, a little ashamed. “Yeah. He told me.” She quickly adds, “And he made me promise not to tell you.”

You scoff. “Of course he did. He didn’t want to hear my ‘smart remarks’ again. He probably thinks I’m his mom at this point, pestering him.”

“That’s not it,” El says, shaking her head. “He knows you worry about him. We both do. And honestly? You have a reason to.” She exhales, then continues, “I only agreed because he said he’d text me the whole time. Just so I’d know he’s okay.”

You cross your arms. “And?”

“The last message I got was around seven,” she says, her voice tightening. “He said he was going in.”

You glance at the time. It’s way past that now.

“What was he even doing there?” you ask.

El shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. He just said he had some business to take care of. That it’d be quick.” She lets out a quiet, uneasy breath. “Clearly it’s not.”

Silence settles between you for a moment, heavier this time.

“I don’t want to panic,” she adds, her voice quieter now, “but after what we saw there… the kind of people that were around…” She swallows. “I’m scared something happened to him.”

That lands.

Because yeah—Mario’s not small. He’s got height, some lean muscle, enough to handle himself in most situations.

But that place?

That’s not most situations.

He’s still your friend.

And something about all of this doesn’t sit right.

El looks at you, worry written all over her face. “What are we gonna do?”

You sigh, already knowing the answer.

“What else?” you mutter. “We have to go back and find him.”

Her expression tightens. “What if he’s not there?”

“Then we hope he made it there and someone saw him,” you reply, already turning and heading toward your car. “And we figure it out from there.”

You don’t give yourself time to second-guess it.

El hurries after you, sliding into the passenger seat as you start the engine. For a brief second, you just sit there, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than usual.

You had hoped you’d never go back.

But just like that—that hope is gone.

You park a little further down the street, not wanting to pull up right in front like last time. The engine dies, and for a moment neither of you moves. The place hasn’t changed at all. The street still feels wrong—too quiet, too empty, like it’s been deliberately erased from everything around it. You glance at El, and she looks just as uneasy as you feel.

“Let’s go,” you mutter, pushing the door open.

You both walk toward the entrance, slower this time, more cautious. When you reach the door, El tries to push it open, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. She turns to you, brows knitting together. “What now?”

Before you can answer, the door creaks open from the inside. The same bouncer steps into view, and for a second you don’t recognize him. Then it clicks—the same sharp, heavy-lidded eyes, the same detached, almost stoned expression. It feels like no time has passed. His gaze drags over both of you, slow and deliberate, lingering a little too long on your bare legs, and you instantly regret dressing up for the bar tonight.

“You’re late,” he says, voice rough. “Let people in an hour ago.”

You don’t bother arguing. You reach into your purse, pull out a bill, and press it against his chest. He catches it easily, glancing down before tucking it away. A smirk pulls at his mouth. “Would’ve preferred you in my arms,” he mutters. You grimace, not even hiding your disgust this time, while El’s grip tightens around your hand as the door opens wider and you both slip inside.

The moment you step down the stairs, the noise hits—loud, heavy, suffocating. The smell follows right after. Sweat, weed, alcohol. It’s exactly how you remember it, maybe worse. The main area is completely packed, even more than last time, bodies pressed together so tightly it feels impossible to move. You barely even glance toward the ring. That’s not why you’re here.

“Room,” you remind El, leaning closer so she can hear you.

She nods quickly, already following your lead as you both start pushing through the crowd, weaving between people with purpose. You keep your focus forward, mentally retracing the path from last time. The stairs. The hallway. That door. That’s where you last saw Mario, and right now, that’s the only place that matters.

“El—this way,” you say, tugging her slightly as you manage to break away from the tightest part of the crowd and angle toward the stairs. There are still people gathered there, but it’s easier to move, easier to breathe. “We check the room first. If he’s not there, we’ll figure something else out.”

The microphone cuts in, sharp and loud, but you don’t stop. The announcer’s voice blends into the background as you keep moving, slipping past another group, already stepping toward the hallway. You’re close now, close enough that you can almost see the door in your mind.

“…and tonight,” the voice drawls.

You ignore it.

“First time in the ring—”

Still moving.

“—and bold enough to throw down a challenge—”

You’re already turning, already heading for the hallway.

“—challenging JK himself—”

The crowd reacts loudly, but it barely registers. You’re focused on getting there, on finding him before anything else can go wrong.

“And let’s hear it for—”

You don’t slow down.

“Maaaario.”

El stops so abruptly it almost throws you into her back, your steps catching at the last second as the name echoes through the space. For a moment it doesn’t register—not fully. It stretches out in the air, swallowed and amplified by the crowd’s reaction, like your brain refuses to connect it to anything real.

Then it hits.

Your body goes still as your mind catches up, the realization crashing in all at once. Around you, the crowd erupts, louder than before, excitement surging like this is exactly what they came for. El doesn’t move in front of you, her posture rigid, and your hand tightens slightly where you’re still holding onto her.

Neither of you says anything.

Because you both heard it.

And suddenly, finding Mario doesn’t feel like a question anymore.

It feels like a problem.

The countdown starts somewhere above the noise, the announcer stretching each number out like he’s feeding the crowd. It barely registers at first, your mind still stuck on the name you just heard, but then the final number hits and everything erupts at once. Before you can even think, the fight begins.

You and El move at the same time without saying a word. There’s no hesitation now, just urgency as you push into the crowd, forcing your way through bodies that don’t want to move. Shoulders slam into you, someone curses, another shoves you aside, but no one really stops you. They’re too focused on the ring, too caught up in the fight to care about anything else. The noise is overwhelming—yells, cheers, fists hitting metal—and it makes your chest tighten because you can’t see anything. Not knowing what’s happening somehow feels worse than seeing it.

El takes the lead, using her strength to pry a path open, her grip tight around your wrist as she drags you forward. You stumble after her, trying to keep up as she forces space where there isn’t any. It feels endless, like you’re stuck in a wall of bodies that won’t break, but eventually it does. You reach the ring, not close enough to touch it comfortably, but close enough to see.

And what you see makes your breath catch.

Mario is on the ground, one hand pressed to his face as blood spills from his nose. He looks disoriented, struggling to steady himself, and for a second it doesn’t even register as a fight. It looks like damage, like something that’s already gone too far. Your fingers slip through the fence without you thinking, gripping the cold metal as your eyes dart to his opponent.

JK is circling him.

Not rushing, not pressing—just waiting. There’s something unsettling about the way he moves, controlled and calm, like he already knows exactly how this ends. He lets Mario struggle, lets him try to get up, almost like he’s giving him space on purpose. Like he’s drawing it out.

Your stomach twists as you try to make sense of it. Can’t he just stop it? Can Mario tap out? Are there even rules here?

You don’t know.

“Oh my god,” El whispers beside you, her voice tight with fear.

“Come on,” you say under your breath, gripping the fence harder. “Get up. Get up.”

There’s no way he can hear you through the chaos, and yet somehow he moves. Mario pushes himself up, unsteady, barely holding his balance as he spits blood onto the ground. The sight makes your stomach churn, but he lifts his hands again, trying to reset, trying to fight.

He throws the first punch, driven more by instinct than skill. It’s messy, desperate, lacking control, but it’s something. JK avoids it easily, shifting just enough for it to miss. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK moves around him like it’s nothing. There’s no panic in him, no rush. Just patience.

Then he strikes.

It’s quick. Sharp. Clean.

The first hit snaps Mario’s head to the side, the second lands before he can recover, and the third sends him stumbling backward. JK doesn’t overextend, doesn’t waste movement—every punch is calculated, deliberate, landing exactly where it needs to. Mario tries to hold his ground, but it’s obvious now. He’s outmatched.

One more hit lands, harder than the rest, and it drops him.

You gasp, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it as Mario hits the ground again. His face is already swelling, one eye starting to close, blood spreading across his skin in a way that makes your chest tighten painfully.

“Mario!” you shout, panic rising fast. “Get up!”

El is yelling too now, her voice breaking as she calls his name, the two of you pressed against the fence, desperate, urging him to move, to stay conscious, to do anything. The fear settles deep in your chest because what if he doesn’t get up this time? What if this doesn’t stop?

Mario shifts slightly, barely lifting his head, and then his gaze turns. Not toward JK, not toward the crowd—but toward you.

People cheer.

The sight of his face makes something in you twist. Swollen, bloodied, barely recognizable, and still he finds you in the chaos. Your breath hitches as you realize he sees you here.

JK notices.

It’s subtle at first, just a shift in his focus, the way his eyes narrow as he follows Mario’s line of sight. And then he looks at you. Really looks, his gaze locking onto yours in a way that feels too direct, too aware.

For a second, everything feels still.

Then he moves.

He crouches beside Mario, and your stomach drops as his hand shoots out, fingers tangling into Mario’s hair. The grip is tight, controlling, forcing his head up despite the lack of resistance. Mario barely reacts, his body too weak to fight back, and panic spikes in your chest.

JK doesn’t look away from you. His dark hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin barely marked compared to Mario’s. Like this fight hasn’t cost him anything.

And then he smirks.

Your chest tightens as his grip tightens with it, lifting Mario’s head just enough—

Before slamming it back down against the ground.

The sound is sickening.

It cuts through everything.

Mario goes limp.

And for a second, you don’t breathe, don’t move, don’t think. You just stare, because something in you knows that whatever line there was before, it’s gone now.

The sound crashes back all at once, loud and overwhelming, like nothing just happened. Like what you just saw is entertainment, nothing more. JK steps back, the win clearly his, and the fence is already being opened for him as if it was expected. Of course it was. He walks out without a glance back, already moving on while the crowd feeds off the aftermath.

You don’t.

You can’t.

Two men enter the ring almost immediately, grabbing Mario under his arms and hauling him up. His body hangs between them, limp, unresponsive, his head lolling slightly with the movement. The sight knocks the air out of your lungs.

You force yourself to move.

Your throat tightens as you swallow hard, shaking yourself out of the daze as you grab El’s arm. “Come on,” you manage, your voice barely steady, your eyes locked on Mario as they carry him away.

You follow them.

They move fast, cutting through a path that clears easier for them than it ever did for you. When you and El catch up, one of the men glances back, clearly annoyed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes you in. El’s panicked whispers don’t help.

“Oh my god… Mario, we’re here. You’re gonna be okay—”

“Hey,” one of the men snaps. “You can’t—”

“He’s our friend,” you cut in quickly, your voice sharper than you expect. “We’re staying. Where are you taking him?”

They don’t look like they want to deal with you. Not now. Not with this. The two of them exchange a look, something silent passing between them before one sighs, clearly deciding it’s not worth the argument.

“He’s getting treated,” he says shortly, already turning away.

You don’t ask by whom. You just follow.

The hallway feels tighter this time, the noise from the main area fading behind you as they lead you into one of the rooms. It’s smaller than you expected, cramped and worn, with dented lockers lining one wall and a narrow bed in the center that looks like it once belonged in a hospital.

They set Mario down without much care. His body barely reacts, his head rolling slightly to the side, and something in your chest twists painfully at how still he is.

You and El move immediately, stopping just short of touching him, both of you hovering, afraid of making it worse.

The door opens again.

A young man steps in, probably in his early twenties, maybe a bit older, his build lean but steady. He’s dressed simply—dark shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows—and there’s a certain efficiency in the way he moves, like he’s done this too many times to think about it. His hair is slightly messy, falling into his eyes as he pulls on a pair of gloves, his expression focused rather than concerned.

“What do we have this time?” he asks, glancing over Mario with quick, practiced eyes.

“Probably a broken nose. Maybe more,” one of the men replies.

The young man exhales quietly, stepping closer to the bed as he tilts Mario’s head slightly, inspecting the damage without hesitation. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Another one who thought he could last longer than he actually could.”

Mario gets treated like you and El aren’t even there.

The young man moves around him with quiet efficiency, cleaning the blood, checking his nose, pressing gauze where it’s needed. The two men who carried him in linger for a moment before stepping aside, talking in low voices, completely unfazed. It’s like this is routine. Like people getting carried in half-conscious isn’t anything out of the ordinary.

You can’t stand still.

You start pacing the small room, your steps short and sharp, your arms crossed tight over your chest as your thoughts spiral. No matter how hard you try to focus on Mario, your mind keeps dragging you back to the ring—to that moment. The way JK looked at you. The way he made sure you saw it. That last hit.

The way Mario just… stopped.

Your jaw tightens.

Even when Mario lets out a low groan, shifting slightly on the bed, it doesn’t pull you out of it. El is at his side immediately, her voice soft but urgent as she leans closer. “Mario? Hey—can you hear me?” He mumbles something incoherent, his words slurred, barely forming, and El glances up, worry etched all over her face. “Doesn’t he need a hospital?”

The young man doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. “If he goes to a hospital, questions get asked,” he says flatly. “Police get involved.”

“Maybe they should,” you cut in sharply, stopping your pacing to look at him. “Maybe that would finally shut this place down.”

That gets his attention.

He shoots you a look, sharp and unimpressed. “Hate to break it to you,” he says, tone edged with something colder now, “but your friend would be the one in trouble. This is illegal. He signed up for it.”

You don’t care.

You don’t care what he says, what excuses they have, what twisted logic they follow in this place.

Your anger is already too far gone.

“Where is he?” you ask suddenly.

The room stills for a second.

“Who?” one of the men asks.

You look at him like it should be obvious. “JK.”

They exchange a glance, something unreadable passing between them. “Why?” the other one mutters.

You don’t answer that.

You just look at El. “Stay here. Keep an eye on him.”

She blinks at you, clearly trying to figure out what you’re about to do. “Wait—”

But you’re already moving.

You leave before she can stop you, before anyone can question you further, your steps quick and determined as you head back down the hall. You don’t even know if he’s still there, if he went back to that room or somewhere else entirely, but you don’t stop to think about it.

You’re too angry to think.

You reach the door and push it open hard.

Empty.

The room looks exactly the same as before—the couch, the chair, the faint trace of something cleaner in the air compared to the rest of the place—but he’s not there. You step further in, scanning it anyway, like he might suddenly appear.

“Where the hell—”

The door opens behind you.

You turn immediately.

JK stands there.

He doesn’t look surprised to see someone in the room. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed, like you’re an inconvenience he didn’t feel like dealing with tonight. His hair is wet, strands sticking to his forehead, steam still curling faintly from the doorway behind him—bathroom, you realize. He’s changed, now wearing a pair of dark cotton shorts, a towel in his hands that he uses once before tossing it aside onto the couch like it doesn’t matter.

Like nothing matters.

He doesn’t even acknowledge you.

That’s what sets you off.

Before you can think, you’re already moving toward him, anger taking over completely as you shove both hands against his chest. The contact is solid—his skin still warm from the shower, heat lingering under your palms, his muscles hard and unyielding beneath your push. It’s like trying to move a wall.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snap, your voice sharp with fury. “You could’ve killed him!”

He barely moves.

Not even a step back.

Just stands there, looking down at you as if you’re something mildly irritating, one brow lifting slightly as your hair falls out of place from the force of your movement.

“You done?” he asks.

The words hit harder than they should.

You freeze for half a second, caught off guard—not just by how close he is, not just by hearing his voice directed at you for the first time, but by how little he seems to care.

“Not entirely,” you snap back, your anger flaring again as you move to shove him once more.

This time, he catches your wrist.

Effortlessly.

His grip is firm, stopping you mid-motion like it’s nothing, like you weren’t even a challenge to begin with.

“You’re a piece of shit,” you tell him, your voice tight.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, slow and unimpressed. “And yet,” he replies coolly, tilting his head slightly as his grip doesn’t loosen, “your friend stepped into the ring with me anyway.”

“Let me go,” you snap, yanking against him.

For a second, he just watches you, completely unimpressed, like this is nothing new to him.

Then he lets go.

Abruptly.

You stumble back a step as he pushes you away, not rough enough to hurt, but enough to put distance between you, like he’s brushing something off.

“Careful,” he says, voice low, almost amused, “you’re gonna hurt yourself before you even get close to hurting me.”

The arrogance in his tone only makes your blood boil more.

“You’re an arrogant prick,” you snap without hesitation, your voice sharp enough to cut through whatever calm he’s pretending to have. “Do you feel good about it? Almost killing people for a bunch of money?”

Something shifts.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. The smirk fades just enough, his eyes darkening as he looks at you, really looks this time.

“Out,” he says.

You don’t move.

You don’t even consider it.

“You’re in no position to tell me what to do,” you fire back immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t justify himself.

That only makes it worse.

You step closer again, closing the distance, your finger lifting as you point it toward his chest. “You don’t get to act like this is normal. Like you’re not the problem here.”

His hand moves before you can react.

Fast.

Your wrist is caught again, but this time there’s no patience behind it. No casual ease. Just control.

“You’re pushing it,” he says, voice low, edged with warning.

“Good,” you snap, trying to yank your hand free. “Maybe someone should—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

In one swift movement, he turns you, your back hitting the wall with a dull thud before you can process what just happened. Your breath catches as he pins your arms behind you, one hand locking both of your wrists in place, the other braced near your shoulder, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

The shift is instant.

You’re not in control anymore.

Your heart jumps, adrenaline spiking as you struggle against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s stronger, faster, and far too used to this kind of contact.

He leans in slightly, just enough for you to feel the heat still radiating off his skin.

“You talk a lot,” he mutters, his grip tightening just enough to keep you from trying anything else, “for someone who has no idea what she just walked into.”

His hand still holds your wrists behind your back, and now his other arm shifts slightly, boxing you in. The heat from his body hasn’t faded yet, his skin still warm under the dim light, his breath just brushing near your ear without quite touching.

Your pulse spikes despite yourself.

“Yeah?” you manage, your voice tighter than you’d like. “What did I walk into?”

There’s a beat.

Short.

Deliberate.

Then—

“A place you don’t belong,” he says quietly, voice low and steady, right by your ear.

No hesitation. No explanation.

Just fact.

His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you he’s still in control.

“And a fight you can’t win.”

He lets go of you.

The shift is sudden enough that you almost stumble forward before catching yourself. You turn on him immediately, your chest rising and falling too fast, your pulse still racing from the proximity, from the grip, from everything. For a second, you just stare at him, trying to steady yourself, trying to hold onto the anger that brought you here in the first place.

“Leave,” he says.

Just like that. Flat. Dismissive.

You blink at him, still catching your breath. You don’t even know what you expected coming here—an apology, a reaction, something—but all you got was this. Him. Unbothered. Untouched. Like what happened in that ring meant nothing.

You open your mouth, but before you can say anything—

The door swings open.

A blonde woman steps in, her energy shifting the moment she notices you. The grin she walked in with disappears almost instantly, her eyes flicking between you and him, lingering a second too long on the fact that he’s still shirtless.

The air changes.

“Who’s this?” she asks, her tone edged, curious but already leaning toward annoyed.

Jungkook doesn’t rush to answer. He doesn’t even look at her right away. Instead, he grabs an oversized shirt, pulling it over his head like this conversation doesn’t concern him in the slightest.

“She’s leaving,” he says, like that’s enough.

You let out a sharp scoff. “The hell I am.”

That gets a reaction.

Not from her.

From him.

It’s subtle—just the corner of his mouth pulling into something that almost resembles a grin, like he finds you more entertaining than anything else. It’s not warm. Not kind.

Provocative.

The blonde woman shifts her weight, clearly irritated now, her gaze narrowing slightly as she looks at you again. “I think you heard him.”

You don’t move.

Not an inch.

“I heard him,” you reply coolly. “I just don’t care.”

Her annoyance sharpens, visible now, but Jungkook doesn’t step in. Doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t repeat himself. If anything, he looks more interested now, watching the tension build like it’s something worth his time.

The woman steps further into the room, and now that you actually look at her, it’s obvious. The red dress clings to her body, cut far too short to be anything but intentional, the fabric hugging her curves like she walked in here knowing exactly what she came for.

Not the fight.

Him.

You almost snort at the realization.

She barely spares you another glance before her attention shifts fully to Jungkook, like you’ve already been dismissed. “You were incredible tonight,” she says, her tone smoothing out into something softer, almost impressed. “I was here. Watched the whole thing.”

Jungkook doesn’t react the way she expects.

He doesn’t even look at her.

“Good,” he says simply, already reaching for a bag that looks like his, slinging it over his shoulder like the conversation means nothing.

The woman doesn’t seem discouraged.

If anything, she leans into it.

She steps closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like she’s used to getting attention this way. And maybe she is. But this time, there’s something else in it too—something sharper. When she shifts closer to him, her gaze flicks to you for just a second.

Oh.

There it is.

She sees you as a problem.

A threat.

The realization makes something in you click—and instead of being bothered, you grin.

Actually grin.

You shake your head lightly, almost amused now as you look between them. 

Her hand brushes lightly against his arm, her voice dropping as she says something under her breath, something meant just for him.

JK finally looks at her.

Not interested. Not even tempted.

“Not tonight,” he says flatly, pulling his arm away without hesitation. There’s no softness in it, no apology. Just a quiet finality that lands harder than anything else.

It’s enough.

Her expression tightens, the confidence slipping just slightly as she straightens, clearly not satisfied with the answer. For a second, it looks like she might push it, but she doesn’t. Instead, she exhales sharply, shooting you one last look before turning on her heel and walking out.

The door closes behind her.

Silence settles for a beat.

Then his attention shifts.

Back to you.

And this time, there’s no amusement left in it.

Just irritation.

“You’re still here,” he says, like it’s a problem that hasn’t fixed itself yet.

You let out a sharp breath, disbelief mixing with the anger that never really left.

“I can’t believe you,” you say, your voice tight, almost shaking. “You just walk out of there like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t even happen.”

He doesn’t respond.

That only makes it worse.

“Mario is in there,” you continue, stepping closer again, your frustration building all over again. “Barely conscious, coming in and out of it—and you’re just… here. Moving on. Like this is normal.”

Your eyes flick briefly to the door, then back to him.

“And what, now it’s back to this?” you add, your tone sharper. “Girls lining up because you won? Like that’s all this is to you?”

His expression barely shifts.

If anything, it hardens.

He doesn’t react the way you expect.

No apology. No defense.

Instead, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a thick fold of cash, and before you can even register it, he grabs your hand and forces it open, pressing the money into your palm.

“Enough?” he asks, tone flat. “Or you gonna keep talking?”

You stare down at it for half a second, disbelief hitting first, then anger flooding right after.

You’re about to throw it straight back at him—

But he speaks again.

“Give it to him,” he adds, nodding slightly toward the door. “Call it… a consolation prize.”

There’s a pause, just enough for it to land.

Then, quieter, with that same careless edge, “For getting dropped that fast.”

Your fingers tighten around the money without you meaning to, your jaw clenching as the insult settles heavy in the air.

Before you can react—

He moves.

It’s quick. Too quick.

His hand comes up, and his thumb brushes over the corner of your lips, slow enough to feel deliberate, wiping at something you didn’t even realize was there. The touch is brief, but it lands heavier than it should, heat lingering where his skin just was.

You freeze.

Not because you want to.

Because you didn’t expect it.

He pulls his hand back, glancing at his thumb like he’s checking the faint smear of red before letting out a quiet, almost amused breath.

“Fix yourself,” he says, voice low, edged with something mocking. “Wouldn’t want you going back to your guy looking like that.”

His eyes flick back up to yours, that same faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Lipstick’s smudged, Red.”

And just like that, he’s done. He grabs his bag, throws it over his shoulder, and walks past you without another glance, like the conversation never mattered to him in the first place, like you never mattered enough to leave an impression. The bag shifts as he moves, heavy, the faint rustle unmistakable—you don’t even need to look twice to know it’s stuffed with cash. Easy money. Hard-earned in all the wrong ways. He carries it like it’s nothing.

The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, and the shift is immediate—the room falling into a stillness that feels almost unnatural after everything that just happened.

The silence presses in, heavy and unfamiliar. The faint trace of his cologne lingers in the air—something sharp, clean, expensive—cutting through the stale mix of sweat and smoke that clings to everything else in this place. It doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t fit the cracked walls, the worn furniture, the quiet evidence of violence that lingers in every corner. And somehow, neither does he, even though he clearly owns it.

You don’t move right away. Your hand is still loosely curled around the cash he forced into your palm, your other lifting without you realizing it, fingers hovering near your lips where his thumb had brushed just moments ago. The sensation is gone, but not really. It lingers in your head, in the way your body reacts before your mind can catch up, and that alone is enough to make your jaw tighten.

Your heartbeat hasn’t slowed. If anything, it’s worse now—faster than it was before you even walked in here, louder in your ears, harder to ignore. You swallow, forcing your hand to drop, grounding yourself, dragging your focus back to something real. Back to why you came here in the first place.

Because whatever that was, whatever just passed between you and him, it doesn’t matter.

Mario is still down the hall, hurt, barely conscious, and this place hasn’t changed just because you stepped into one room and out of another. It’s still exactly what you thought it was—a place where violence is entertainment, where people walk in and don’t always walk out the same, and where no one stops to care what happens once the fight is over.

With each step closer, the music’s beat grows heavier and lower, like your own heartbeat. There’s no reason to be scared—just cautious—as you sneak a glance at a bald, muscular man who looks intoxicated and ready to chew someone’s head off.

This is no fancy club. There are no velvet ropes, no long lines, no excitement lingering in the air. At least, not for you.

If it weren’t for a twist of events, you would never come here voluntarily. Your outfit says otherwise, though.

You stand close to your friends, practically glued to their sides, as the man who looks like a straight-up junkie moves toward the club’s door. Oh, he’s the bouncer.

As he eyes all of you with empty orbs, part of you wishes he would turn you away and not let you enter this place. Your wish isn’t fulfilled. The bouncer gives Mario a curt nod, and that’s all it takes for your friend to lead the way.

As soon as the door opens, the music becomes sharper and clearer. There’s only a small space before it leads downstairs to the basement. This place is everything a mother would tell you to avoid.

Good thing you don’t have one.

Neon lights grow more visible with each step, covering the floor in flickering electric pink, acid green, and colors you don’t even get to notice as they shift too quickly. As you make it down to the main room, your mouth drops—and so does your heart.

The place is packed, so much so that it makes you question if it’s really that good. The exterior alone—the entire neighborhood—is just not it. How does Mario even know a place like this? How does he even know this part of town?

You make a mental note to question him later, because he sure as hell didn’t mention any of it. All he said was that the booze is cheap and the place is fine. If leaving means paying more for the few shots you’re about to have, so be it.

From the looks of it, everyone else is on board and follows him.

The air is thick with a mixture of scents you can’t even name. There’s a distinct smell of cigarettes, weed, and perfume—the rest, you’d rather not identify. By the time you’re out of here, you’ll reek of this place and probably have to burn the nice dress you’re wearing.

Mario promised he was only dropping something off, so this should be quick— in and out. It should be quick enough for you to grab a drink and hopefully head somewhere else.

El leans closer, her shoulder bumping into yours as she tries to be heard over the pounding music. Her voice still barely cuts through it.

“What is this place?”

You follow her gaze—and that’s when you see it.

Ahead of you, past the blur of bodies and neon light, there’s a ring. Not the kind you’d expect. Not clean, not professional. A fence cages it in completely, metal bars rising high enough to make it feel less like a sport and more like containment. Like whatever goes in there isn’t supposed to get out.

It looks barbaric. Primal. Like it was built for animals.

And the people gathered around it—too many, too eager—aren’t just passing by. They’re waiting.

You swallow, leaning in so El can hear you.

“It looks like a nightmare.”

El lets out a short breath that might be a laugh, might be something else. She tilts her head, eyes scanning the ring with something closer to curiosity than concern.

“I’ve been to worse.”

For once, you don’t question her.

El’s always been the one to drift into places like this without hesitation, coming back with stories she tells like they’re nothing—like they didn’t happen. You used to think she exaggerated.

Now, standing here, you’re not so sure.

The crowd shifts, tightening around the fence as if pulled by the same invisible string. Someone shoves past you, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to them. Another voice shouts something you can’t make out, swallowed whole by the bass.

You glance around for Mario, but he’s already a few steps ahead, carving a path like he belongs here.

That doesn’t sit right.

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides, the fabric of your dress suddenly feeling too thin, too out of place in a room like this. The air presses in, thick and suffocating, buzzing with anticipation.

Whatever is about to happen in that ring—

You’re not sure you want to see it.

But the crowd isn’t leaving.

And neither are you.

Mario weaves through the crowd like he’s done it a hundred times, barely checking if you and El are still behind him. You push through shoulders and elbows, the press of bodies tightening the closer you get to the fenced ring.

He finally stops, gesturing toward a narrow stretch of space wedged between a rusted railing and a couple already arguing over something you can’t hear.

“Here.”

Seats is a generous word. It’s more like a claimed patch of ground—third row, if you had to guess. Not close enough to touch the fence, but close enough that whatever happens in there won’t be easy to ignore.

You glance toward the ring again.

Up close, it’s worse.

The ground inside looks… wrong. Like it’s been scraped clean over and over again. The surface is uneven, rough in places—but there are faint traces that didn’t quite disappear. Darker patches. Stains that the dim, flickering lights can’t fully hide.

Your stomach tightens.

Mario claps his hands once, like he’s wrapping something up. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What do you mean stay here? What the hell is this place?”

He sighs, but it’s not sharp or annoyed—more like he just doesn’t have the energy for this right now. His eyes flick briefly toward the ring, then back to you.

“I’ll get you your drinks,” he says, already half-turning away. “What d’you want?”

You hesitate, glancing around again—the crowd, the fence, the floor inside the ring.

“I’m not sure I want to drink anything from this place.”

El snorts beside you, loud enough to earn a glance from someone nearby.

Mario rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a snob.”

You scoff immediately. “I’m not—”

“We’ll have vodka,” El cuts in, waving a hand like she’s sealing the deal.

Mario nods once, like that settles everything, and disappears back into the crowd before you can argue further.

For a second, it’s just you and El, the noise, the heat—

And then the music cuts.

Just like that.

A sharp hum of feedback cuts through the silence, and a man’s voice follows, loud and grating through the speakers.

“Alright, alright—eyes up!”

You look toward the ring.

The man holding the microphone steps into the light, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you should take him seriously. He looks like he’s somewhere in his forties, head completely shaved, his clothes hanging off him like they don’t belong to him—too big, too worn, sleeves slipping past his wrists. The kind of outfit that looks like it was pulled from one of those street donation bins, the ones meant for charity but always picked through before anything gets there.

He has that same look, too.

Like the kind of guy you’d cross the street to avoid.

But here—here, he owns the room.

“Welcome, you animals!” he shouts, grinning wide enough to show crooked teeth. “You came hungry tonight, yeah?”

A laugh almost slips out of you.

It’s not even that funny—but something about the way he says it, like he means it, like he’s not talking to the crowd but about them, hits in a strange way. Humor, sharp and dry, cuts through the unease curling in your stomach.

Because you already have a feeling what that ring is for.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

The reaction is instant.

The crowd erupts—loud, aggressive, overwhelming. It slams into you from all sides, so intense it makes you flinch. It’s not just cheering. It’s something rougher. Hungrier.

You hadn’t realized how many men were packed into this place until now. Your stomach twists.

The man laughs into the mic, feeding off it. “That’s what I like to hear!”

He paces along the edge of the fenced ring, dragging the moment out before throwing one arm toward the entrance on the opposite side.

“Let’s not waste time. Get ready for your first fighter of the night—give it up for…” he pauses, milking it, “…Blue Viper!”

The name hits, and the crowd roars again.

A man steps into the ring.

He’s lean, all sharp lines and defined muscle, abs catching the harsh lights as he moves. Royal blue shorts hang low on his hips, matching gloves already strapped tight around his hands. He lifts his arms the second he steps inside, like he’s already won, soaking in the noise like it belongs to him.

It probably does.

“What the fuck,” you mumble under your breath.

Beside you, El swallows, eyes fixed on the ring.

“How does Mario even know about this place?” you add, quieter now, like saying it too loud might make it worse.

But there’s no time to think. The man with the mic raises his hand again, the crowd slowly settling—not quiet, never quiet, just waiting.

“And his opponent…” he continues, voice dropping just enough to build it back up, “—ah, this one doesn’t need much of an introduction.”

A ripple moves through the crowd. You feel it before you understand it.

“He’s your favorite,” the man grins. “Your undefeated—your JK!”

For a split second, your brain doesn’t catch up.

And then—

The crowd explodes. Louder than before. Wilder. People shouting, pushing forward, fists hitting the fence.

The fence door screeches as it’s pulled open.

And then he steps in.

JK.

The noise swells instantly, people pressing closer, shouting his name like it means something—like he means something. But he doesn’t even acknowledge it. Not a glance, not a flicker. His focus is locked straight ahead.

On his opponent.

He moves like he already knows how this ends.

Every step is controlled, deliberate. His body shifts under the harsh lights, all muscle and definition—abs tight, arms flexing with even the smallest movement. There’s no wasted motion in him. No nerves. Just quiet, coiled readiness.

His opponent tries to hold his ground, but you catch it—the slight tension in his stance, the way his shoulders tighten under JK’s stare.

Like he already feels it.

Up close, you catch more of him. A sharp jawline, clean and defined, his expression unreadable. When he turns slightly, the line of his back comes into view—lean, strong, every muscle moving under his skin like it’s carved there.

You hate to admit it.

But—yeah. He’s hot.

And apparently, you’re not the only one who noticed.

You glance at El, and—

Right. Of course.

She’s staring at him like she just found religion, eyes practically sparkling.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes. “Suddenly I like being here.”

You snort, shaking your head, even though your own attention has definitely sharpened.

Still…

Your gaze drifts back to the ring, to the fence, to the crowd pressing in like this is the only thing that matters. You’re not sure you like this.

Because it’s obvious now. This isn’t just some weird club attraction. This is underground fighting—illegal, brutal, the kind of thing people don’t talk about in daylight.

And somehow, Mario brought you here.

Of all places.

Your brows pull together slightly as you scan the crowd again, unease settling back in.

Mario has always had… questionable connections. The kind you and El never really asked about, choosing instead to ignore whatever didn’t fit into your version of him.

Mario slips back beside you like he never left, pressing a cold glass into your hand. “What’d I miss?” he asks, far too casually.

You turn to him immediately, irritation rising. “What the hell is this, Mario? What are we doing here—and how did you think this was a good idea?”

He exhales, already looking like he doesn’t want to deal with this conversation, but you don’t let up.

“Seriously. This place—this isn’t normal.”

El doesn’t even glance at him. Her attention is locked on the ring, eyes sharp with interest, like she’s already decided this is worth watching. You, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about the cage, the crowd, the way everyone seemed to be waiting for something violent to happen.

“What is this place?” you ask again, quieter now, but no less firm.

Before he can answer, a sharp bell rings out, cutting through the noise and pulling every ounce of attention back to the ring.

The fight starts instantly. The other guy lunges first, throwing a punch that should land—but JK shifts just enough for it to miss, his movement so subtle it almost looks lazy. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK slips past them with controlled precision, like he’s already mapped out every move before it happens.

You don’t even realize your grip on the glass has tightened until your fingers start to ache. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves—smooth, efficient, completely unbothered. He doesn’t rush or panic, doesn’t even try to overpower. He just watches, waits, and lets the other guy wear himself down.

For a moment, it almost feels intentional, like he’s letting him try.

Taunting him.

The thought settles just as the other man commits to another strike, stepping in harder this time, putting everything behind it—and that’s when JK finally moves forward. His fist connects cleanly, the impact sharp enough to echo even through the roar of the crowd, sending the man stumbling back until his body slams into the fence with a harsh metallic rattle.

The reaction around you is immediate and overwhelming, the crowd exploding with noise that makes your brows pull together as it crashes into you from all sides. But your focus stays on the ring, on the thin line of blood already slipping from the man’s nose, stark against his skin.

Your stomach twists, but not enough to make you look away.

Without thinking, you lift the drink Mario handed you and down it in one go, ignoring the burn, the taste, the suffocating thickness of the air. Your eyes stay locked on the fight, tracking every movement, every shift.

And somewhere in the middle of it, you realize your attention isn’t just caught—

it’s hooked.

The fight doesn’t slow down—it shifts entirely in JK’s favor.

Once the other man hits the ground, something in JK changes. Whatever restraint he had disappears as he follows him down without hesitation, delivering punch after punch with the same controlled force. Each hit lands with a dull, sickening impact, the sound carrying even through the roar of the crowd.

The man barely manages to get his arms up, but it doesn’t do much. Blood spreads quickly—across his face, down his chest, soaking into the already worn surface beneath him. Those faint stains you noticed earlier are no longer subtle. They’re fresh now, darker, undeniable.

JK’s gloves are black, thick. The color hides most of the blood, swallowing it instead of putting it on display, but not entirely. A darker sheen clings to them, catching under the harsh lights every time his fists rise and fall.

Your stomach tightens as the noise around you grows louder, more aggressive, feeding into every hit instead of pulling back from it. It starts to feel like too much—too close, too real, too far past the point where someone should have stepped in already.

“Mario,” you say, leaning toward him, your voice strained as you try to be heard over the chaos. “Is there—do they have a restroom or something?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his attention still fixed on the ring, jaw set like he’s invested in how this ends. For a second, you think he didn’t even hear you, but then he glances over, quick and distracted. “Yeah. Down the hall, to the left.”

You nod, already shifting your weight as you turn to El. “Come with me.”

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even look at you. Her eyes stay locked on the ring, her expression sharper than before, completely absorbed in what’s happening. It catches you off guard, enough that you pause for a second, staring at her like you don’t quite recognize this version of her.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, but she doesn’t react, and it leaves you standing there alone with the noise pressing back in.

Because the fight wasn’t bad at first—it was controlled, almost impressive in a way you didn’t expect—but this is different. This is something else entirely.

Your gaze drifts back to the ring despite yourself, catching the way the man on the ground jerks under another hit, a broken grunt slipping from him as he tries to move, to shield himself, to do anything at all. No one steps in. No one even looks like they’re thinking about it.

A cold thought settles in as you watch.

You hope this isn’t one of those fights—the kind that doesn’t end until someone doesn’t get back up—because the way that man looks right now, barely moving, barely holding on, makes it hard not to think he’s already getting close.

Before you can see anything else, you’ve had enough.

You don’t care how dodgy this place looks anymore—only that you need a second to breathe. The thought crosses your mind, sharp and unwelcome, that walking out alone probably isn’t the smartest idea. A single woman slipping away from a crowd like this doesn’t exactly scream safe. Still, you push it aside, stand up, and follow the direction Mario gave you.

The further you move from the ring, the more the place reveals itself—and none of it is reassuring. The air is thick with alcohol and weed, clinging to the walls, to your skin, to the back of your throat. The dim lighting doesn’t help, casting everything in a dull, grimy glow that makes even the hallway feel like somewhere you shouldn’t be.

You tug your dress down instinctively, suddenly too aware of how short it is, how out of place you feel. The red lipstick you put on earlier now seems like a mistake. If only you had known where you were coming.

The restroom is worse.

One look inside is enough. The smell hits first, then the stained tiles, the flickering light, the general state of neglect that makes your stomach turn. You don’t even consider using it. Instead, you step up to the sink, eyes lifting to the mirror.

You look… composed.

More than you expected, at least. Even with the frown that’s probably been stuck on your face since you walked in, you don’t look shaken. Not on the outside.

You turn on the tap, rinsing your hands out of habit more than anything, the faint taste of vodka still lingering on your tongue. Somewhere in the distance, even from down the hall, you can still hear it—the cheers, muffled but persistent, like a reminder that whatever is happening in that ring hasn’t slowed down.

You don’t want to be here.

But you also don’t want to be left out.

The thought pushes you into motion again. You dry your hands quickly and head back out, picking up your pace as you move down the hallway, unease settling deeper with every step. The walls are lined with old posters, most of them ripped or peeling, leaving behind only fragments—faces without names, events long gone, nothing fully readable.

It only adds to the feeling that you shouldn’t be here.

You’re halfway down when it happens.

You nearly stop in your tracks.

He’s there.

The man from the ring—the one who was just getting beaten—walking toward you like nothing happened. Up close, it’s worse. Blood still clings to him, smeared across his face and chest, his steps uneven, his body barely holding itself together.

And behind him—

The man with the microphone follows, saying something you can’t quite catch.

Your attention snaps forward again.

Because coming straight toward you—

JK.

He’s already out of the ring, moving fast, like the fight meant nothing. The gloves are gone, replaced by white wraps around his hands, slightly darkened in places. His hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin glistening under the dim lights as he closes the distance without slowing down.

For a second, you freeze.

Then instinct kicks in and you step aside quickly, pressing yourself against the wall just as he passes. He doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t acknowledge you at all.

It’s like you’re not even there.

Like if you hadn’t moved—

He would’ve walked straight through you.

Your thoughts barely have time to settle before they’re cut off.

“El—?”

She rushes into view, nearly colliding with you, her expression completely different from the one she had just minutes ago. Whatever excitement she had is gone, replaced with something far more overwhelmed, almost frantic.

“I need the bathroom,” she blurts out, slightly breathless. “Like, right now. I had—shit—I had like three shots in five minutes.”

You blink at her, still catching up. “Where’s Mario?”

El glances back over her shoulder, like she expects him to magically appear behind her. “He said he needed to go too. Just disappeared into the crowd.”

You frown immediately.

Of course he did.

You bite back the first thing that comes to mind, irritation flaring as you glance past her, half-expecting to spot him somewhere down the hall. Nothing. Just the muffled noise from the main room and people moving around like nothing just happened.

Great.

You’ll definitely have to curse him out later—for leaving you alone earlier, even if the whole crowd had still been focused on the fight. At least then, everyone’s attention had been locked on the ring. Now? The fight is over, the tension is shifting, and you don’t even know how to guess who won.

Worse, El could’ve gotten lost in that mess.

Or someone could’ve—

You cut the thought off as your attention sharpens.

Because you can feel it now.

The looks.

They weren’t as obvious before, not when everyone had been too distracted, but now that the focus has broken, it’s different. There aren’t many women here—you’ve noticed that much—and the way some of the men look at you now makes your stomach twist. Lingering stares. Slow, knowing grins that feel far too comfortable.

You scoff under your breath, disgust curling in your chest as you turn back to El.

“The bathroom’s a nightmare,” you warn her. “Like, seriously not usable.”

El groans, clutching her stomach slightly. “I don’t care. My bladder is about to explode.”

Yeah. No arguing with that.

You nod, stepping aside to let her move past you. “Fine. Go. I’ll stay right outside.”

She doesn’t hesitate, already pushing the door open.

You stay put in the hallway, crossing your arms loosely as you position yourself near the wall, trying to look like you belong there more than you feel like you do. The noise from the main room is still there, dulled now, but enough to remind you you’re not completely alone.

Still—

You really hope no one tries to talk to you.

You don’t have to wait long before something shifts again.

Footsteps echo down the hall, heavier this time, more purposeful. A guy comes into view—blonde, maybe mid-twenties, wearing an oversized shirt that hangs loose over a pair of worn jeans. There’s nothing particularly threatening about him at first glance, but the way he carries himself makes people move.

“Get lost,” he says, voice flat, like he’s said it a hundred times before.

The men lingering too close—too interested—pause. You hadn’t even fully clocked how near they were getting until now. One of them mutters something under his breath, low and irritated, but before anything can escalate, a woman slips up beside them. She leans in, whispers something quick into one of their ears.

The reaction is immediate.

Their expressions shift, something greedy lighting up in their eyes, and just like that, they back off, leaving without another glance.

You feel your stomach turn.

Disgust settles in deep as you press your lips together, forcing yourself not to react more visibly. Whatever she said—it worked too easily.

You take a few steps further down the hall, needing the distance, the space. Behind you, the noise from the main room is starting to die down, the chaos thinning out into something more controlled. It sounds like they’re clearing people out, or at least resetting the space for whatever comes next.

That thought alone makes your skin crawl.

Ahead of you, the blonde guy reaches a door—one you hadn’t paid much attention to before—and pushes it open without hesitation.

And for a split second, you see inside.

It’s a medium-sized room, dim but cleaner than the rest of this place, like it serves a different purpose. Your brain barely has time to process the layout before something—someone—snags your attention completely.

Mario.

Standing there like he belongs.

Your breath catches, surprise hitting first, sharp and immediate. So much for the bathroom. He didn’t even come this way—the toilets are further down, you know that now.

But the shock doesn’t stop there.

Because sitting in one of the chairs—

JK.

Up close, under better light, he looks just as composed as he did in the ring, even now. Someone—a young guy, too young if you’re being honest—is crouched in front of him, carefully unwrapping the white tape from his hands. The fabric is stained in places, and as it comes loose, you catch glimpses of reddened skin underneath.

The kid works quickly, like he knows what he’s doing, like this is routine.

Of course it is.

Nothing about this place is legal. Nothing about it is normal.

Your eyes flick back to Mario, disbelief settling in heavier now. He lied. Not even well—just enough to get away from you and El without questions.

Before you can take in anything else, the door swings shut.

You’re left staring at it, mouth slightly open, like your brain hasn’t caught up to what you just saw.

Mario. In there. With him.

“El?”

She comes back a second later, pushing the bathroom door open with a relieved sigh. “Ready?”

You turn to her, still half-stunned. “I—there’s a room down here. Mario’s in it. And… the guy who was in the ring is in there too.”

El freezes. “What?”

“And some kid—like, actually a kid—is cleaning him up. I don’t even—” You shake your head, trying to piece it together. “This is weird.”

El blinks a few times, processing, then shrugs slightly. “Maybe Mario just knows people here?”

You stare at her. “That doesn’t make it less weird.”

She hesitates, glancing between you and the closed door. “So… what are we doing? Waiting?”

You frown, something in you snapping into place. You’re done waiting. Done being brushed off, lied to, dragged somewhere without knowing why.

Without another word, you step forward and push the door open.

The reaction is immediate.

Conversation cuts off mid-sentence. Every head in the room turns toward you, like you just walked into something you weren’t supposed to see.

Mario looks the worst out of all of them—caught, completely unprepared. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.

Your gaze shifts past him.

JK is still sitting, his hands half-unwrapped, the young guy working on them pausing mid-motion. For a second, he doesn’t even acknowledge you. His eyes stay lowered, focused on his hands—

Then he looks up.

Your eyes meet, just briefly. Long enough for something to register—sharp, assessing. His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, before his expression tightens slightly, like he’s already decided you don’t belong here.

“And what are you doing here?” the blonde man asks, voice flat, almost tired, like this is an inconvenience.

El hovers just behind your shoulder, peeking in, her eyes going wide the second they land on JK. “Fuck,” she whispers, not nearly as quiet as she probably thinks.

You don’t react to her.

Your attention is locked on Mario now. “I should be asking you that.”

He winces slightly, like he expected that, but still doesn’t have a good answer.

The men in the room don’t miss the tension, the way your eyes narrow, the way Mario shifts under it. Something clicks between them, unspoken.

The blonde man exhales sharply, already over it. “Listen, you have no place being here.” His gaze flicks to Mario. “Take your bitches out of here.”

“Excuse me?” you scoff immediately, offense flaring hot and fast. The word hits wrong—too casual, too familiar, like it’s something he says often.

He doesn’t even react. If anything, he looks bored, like he’s seen this exact reaction a hundred times before.

Maybe he has.

“Look, just—give us a minute,” Mario cuts in quickly, stepping forward like he’s trying to manage damage control. “I’ll come out and explain, okay?”

“And wait out there? With all the junkies?” you shoot back, anger creeping in sharper now. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Your patience is gone.

Before Mario can respond, movement pulls your attention again.

JK stands.

The shift in the room is subtle, but it’s there. He rolls his shoulders once, flexing his hands slightly as the young guy quickly gathers the bloodied wraps and cotton, tossing them aside.

“Take this outside,” JK says, voice low and steady, carrying easily through the room.

It’s not loud, but it doesn’t need to be. It lands heavy anyway.

He doesn’t look at anyone again.

Just walks past, disappearing through another door without a second thought.

Silence lingers for a second after he’s gone.

Then the blonde man steps forward slightly, already done with this entire situation. “I’ll be in touch,” he says curtly, though it’s clearly meant for Mario. His gaze flicks back to you and El, sharp, unimpressed. “Out.”

He gestures toward the door, not even pretending to be polite about it.

It’s not an offer.

It’s an order.

You let out a sharp scoff, already drawing breath to snap back at the blonde man—because who the hell does he think he is—but El is faster. Her hand wraps around your wrist, fingers tightening in warning, and at the same time Mario steps in, grabbing your shoulders and steering you back.

“Hey—” you start, but he’s already pushing you out.

The door shuts behind you with a dull thud.

You turn on him immediately.

“What the actual fuck, Mario?”

He exhales, dragging a hand over his face. “Not here.”

“Oh, not—” you scoff, ready to go off, but he’s already moving, heading down the hall like he expects you to follow.

You do. Of course you do.

El stays close, unusually quiet now, her earlier excitement completely gone. The hallway feels different on the way back—emptier, colder somehow. By the time you reach the main area, it’s almost unrecognizable. The crowd is gone, replaced by only a few people cleaning up like nothing ever happened. Trash is being swept, bottles collected, and in one corner, you catch a glimpse of a stack of cash being counted and shoved into a duffle bag.

That’s enough.

You don’t say anything as you follow Mario out, but the second the cold air hits your skin, it’s like everything snaps back into focus. You step forward quickly, grabbing his forearm and forcing him to stop.

“Speak,” you demand.

He looks at you—not angry, not defensive. Just… tired. Defeated, almost.

“Not here, please,” he says quietly. “Let’s just go back to my place.”

Your eyes narrow immediately. The way he glances around, quick and subtle, doesn’t help.

Alarms go off in your head.

You don’t agree, not really—but you don’t argue either. Not yet.

The car ride is silent. Tense. The kind of silence that presses in on you, heavy with everything that hasn’t been said. El sits beside you, staring out the window, unusually still, like she’s replaying everything in her head. You don’t interrupt. You’re doing the same.

By the time you reach Mario’s building, the quiet hasn’t lifted.

It follows you all the way into his apartment.

The door closes behind you, and just like that, the outside world is gone—but the tension stays, thick in the air, waiting.

Mario moves first, like he needs something to do with his hands. “Tea? Or—something?” he offers, already heading toward the kitchen.

Anything to stall.

You don’t answer right away. You just watch him, arms crossed, expression unmoving. Eventually, you nod once, more out of impatience than acceptance, and take a seat on the couch beside El. She sinks into it quietly, still not saying much, her usual energy replaced with something more withdrawn.

Mario brings the cups over a few minutes later, setting them down carefully in front of you both. You don’t thank him. You don’t even look at the tea.

You just look at him.

He takes the chair opposite you, exhaling slowly before running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think it would escalate like that.”

You cut him off immediately. “What did you think, Mario? That we’d just be okay watching that?” Your voice sharpens. “Did you genuinely think we’d enjoy an illegal fight?”

He blinks, caught off guard for a second. “How do you even know it’s illegal?”

You stare at him, almost incredulous. “Are you serious? Nothing about that place screams legal.”

He doesn’t argue.

So you keep going.

“I thought we were going to a club,” you say, your frustration spilling over now. “And then you change plans last minute, and suddenly we’re standing next to a cage, watching a guy get nearly beaten to death?”

The words hang heavy between you.

Mario exhales again, slower this time, and there’s something in his expression that finally cracks—guilt, maybe. Regret.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “I really am. I just… I had to deal with something, and one of my friends was there. I thought it’d just be a fight. I thought you two might—” he hesitates, then shrugs weakly, “—I don’t know. Enjoy it. You like boxing, right?”

That lands badly.

Because whatever that was—wasn’t just boxing.

You lean back slightly, exhaling through your nose, but the tension doesn’t leave your body. If anything, it settles deeper.

“Why do you even hang around people like that?” you ask, your tone quieter now but no less pointed.

Mario winces a little at that, like he expected it. “I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I really am. I won’t bring you there again. Hell, I probably won’t even go back myself. It was a stupid idea.”

You study him for a second, trying to decide if you believe that.

Then you sigh, some of the edge in you softening, just a little. “I didn’t feel safe there,” you admit. “And it’s a good thing nothing happened to us.”

Your fingers curl slightly around the warm cup, grounding yourself before you add, “What even is that place?”

Mario hesitates, like he’s choosing how honest to be. “It’s… yeah, it’s illegal,” he finally says. “But it’s one of the fastest ways to make money. People go there to bet. Not just that—they go because they like the fights. They want to see something real.”

You let out a quiet scoff. “We clearly have very different ideas of what a good fight is.”

He nods, accepting that. “Listen—it’s usually not like that. It gets stopped before it goes too far. Yeah, some guys don’t look great after, but tonight… tonight was intense. I didn’t know JK was gonna be the one fighting. Usually it’s more… controlled.”

You blink at him, stunned. “Oh my god. How many times have you been there?”

“Not that many,” he says quickly, holding up a hand. “Seriously. But I know it’s not usually like this. There had to be a change of plans when JK showed up. That’s why it was so packed. I should’ve known. I should’ve just left with you the second I realized.”

You shake your head slightly, still trying to process. “Who even is he?”

Mario shrugs. “Just a guy that got popular there. He fights well—really well—and people like watching him. That’s why it gets so crowded when he’s around.”

Your stomach turns at that. “People enjoy watching him beat someone nearly to death?”

“There’s a lot of money involved,” Mario replies, his tone quieter now. “And for some of those guys… it’s easier to earn money that way. One good fight can get you more than a regular job.”

You frown, not convinced. “I don’t get it. I mean, boxing isn’t a bad thing—but when it’s legal. What we saw? There’s a reason that’s not allowed.”

Mario exhales, leaning back in his chair. “The world’s a lot rougher than you think. That place—it’s just one of those corners where people make money however they can.”

You don’t respond to that. Not really.

Instead, you shift your focus, needing something else. “Did you at least deal with your friend? The one you said you had to meet?”

“Yeah,” he nods quickly. “Yeah, that’s done.” He pauses, then adds again, “And I’m sorry. Really. I won’t drag you into something like that again.”

You study him for a moment, then let out a small breath, deciding not to push it further. “Let’s just… hope we’ll laugh about this in twenty years.”

El makes a small sound beside you—half a scoff, half a sip of her tea—and you glance at her.

“Why are you so quiet?” you ask.

She shrugs, staring into her cup for a second before looking up. “I mean… yeah, it was weird. And I definitely wouldn’t go there alone.” She pauses, then adds, almost reluctantly, “But it was kind of interesting to see.”

You drop your head back slightly. “Oh my god.”

El rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile there now. “I’m not saying I want to go back. I don’t. I’d rather we stay far away from that place.” She nudges your arm lightly. “Next time, though? We’re going to an actual club. A good one. We finally convince you to go out, and this is where we end up?”

You huff out a laugh despite yourself, some of the tension finally easing. “Fine. You pick the next place, and I’ll consider going.”

“That’s a yes,” she says immediately.

“It’s a maybe,” you correct, but you’re smiling now.

The night winds down after that, the heaviness of it lingering but not as sharp. You stay over at Mario’s place like usual—nothing new there. You and El take the bed, while he crashes on the couch without complaint.

It should feel normal.

Familiar.

But as you lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, sleep doesn’t come easily.

Because every time you close your eyes, you see it again.

The ring. The blood. The crowd.

And him.

Those dark, steady eyes that barely looked at you—yet somehow linger anyway, slipping into your dreams as the night stretches on, replaying everything like a broken movie you can’t quite turn off.

Life moves on.

Or at least, it pretends to.

In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.

And for a while, neither does that night.

It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.

Still, sometimes it creeps in.

A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?

You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.

The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.

But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.

It becomes just a faint memory.

Something that happened.

Something you don’t talk about.

Life moves on. Or at least, it tries to.

In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.

And for a while, neither does that night.

It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.

Still, sometimes it creeps in. A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?

You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.

The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.

But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.

It becomes just a faint memory. Something that happened. Something you don’t talk about.

Lately, you’ve been seeing El more often. Mario’s been busy, which isn’t unusual. He’s always had something going on, mostly revolving around cars. Buying them, fixing them, flipping them. Old ones, newer ones—it doesn’t really matter. He calls it an investment, says the money always comes back if you know what you’re doing.

And apparently, he does.

Between the cars and whatever connections he’s built over time, he’s become the guy people call when something breaks. You’ve done it yourself. The last time your car had an issue, he fixed it in a day and saved you from dealing with overpriced repair shops and all their nonsense. He’s reliable like that.

Just not always honest.

Tonight, it’s just you and El at one of your usual bars, tucked into a booth that’s a little too worn but familiar enough to feel comfortable. You didn’t feel like drinking, so you’ve been sticking to soda while she’s had a couple of shots.

It reminds you of a phase you’ve already gone through—back when you were younger, figuring out your limits. These days, you don’t really care for it.

El, though, seems off.

At first, you assume it’s her ex. She spent way too long getting over him, and for a moment you wonder if she slipped back into that. But then she checks her phone again. And again. And again.

You watch her for a while before finally speaking up. “Okay, something’s up.”

She barely looks at you. “Nothing’s up.”

“You’ve checked your phone like ten times in five minutes.”

“I’m just waiting for a message.”

“From who?”

She shrugs too quickly. “No one important.”

You don’t buy it, but you don’t push right away. The feeling lingers, though, settling in your chest.

Something’s not right.

By the time the waitress tells you they’re closing, it’s already close to ten. You both gather your things and step outside, the cooler air a relief after the stuffy bar. You start telling her something about work—some pointless drama—but she barely reacts, her attention drifting back to her phone.

Then she checks it again.

You stop mid-sentence and look at her. “Okay, you have one minute. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m dropping you off and going home.”

She laughs nervously, scratching her cheek. “Don’t be mad.”

You roll your eyes. “Just say it.”

“I know where Mario is.”

You blink. “Okay? He’s probably working.”

She exhales, muttering, “He’s gonna kill me for this.”

“El.”

“Okay—he went back there.”

You frown. “Back where?”

Her voice lowers. “The ring.”

You stare at her, still trying to process it, the memory of that place snapping back into focus like it never really left.

“What do you mean, the ring?”

“He’s there. Right now.”

You let out a slow breath, disbelief settling in. Of course he is. After everything he said. After promising he wouldn’t go back.

“Unbelievable.”

El shifts slightly, her grip tightening around her phone. “The thing is… he was supposed to text me. And he hasn’t. It’s been, like, four hours.” She glances at the screen again, like it might suddenly light up. “He promised he would.”

You frown. “Wait—did you know he was going there?”

She hesitates, then nods, a little ashamed. “Yeah. He told me.” She quickly adds, “And he made me promise not to tell you.”

You scoff. “Of course he did. He didn’t want to hear my ‘smart remarks’ again. He probably thinks I’m his mom at this point, pestering him.”

“That’s not it,” El says, shaking her head. “He knows you worry about him. We both do. And honestly? You have a reason to.” She exhales, then continues, “I only agreed because he said he’d text me the whole time. Just so I’d know he’s okay.”

You cross your arms. “And?”

“The last message I got was around seven,” she says, her voice tightening. “He said he was going in.”

You glance at the time. It’s way past that now.

“What was he even doing there?” you ask.

El shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. He just said he had some business to take care of. That it’d be quick.” She lets out a quiet, uneasy breath. “Clearly it’s not.”

Silence settles between you for a moment, heavier this time.

“I don’t want to panic,” she adds, her voice quieter now, “but after what we saw there… the kind of people that were around…” She swallows. “I’m scared something happened to him.”

That lands.

Because yeah—Mario’s not small. He’s got height, some lean muscle, enough to handle himself in most situations.

But that place?

That’s not most situations.

He’s still your friend.

And something about all of this doesn’t sit right.

El looks at you, worry written all over her face. “What are we gonna do?”

You sigh, already knowing the answer.

“What else?” you mutter. “We have to go back and find him.”

Her expression tightens. “What if he’s not there?”

“Then we hope he made it there and someone saw him,” you reply, already turning and heading toward your car. “And we figure it out from there.”

You don’t give yourself time to second-guess it.

El hurries after you, sliding into the passenger seat as you start the engine. For a brief second, you just sit there, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than usual.

You had hoped you’d never go back.

But just like that—that hope is gone.

You park a little further down the street, not wanting to pull up right in front like last time. The engine dies, and for a moment neither of you moves. The place hasn’t changed at all. The street still feels wrong—too quiet, too empty, like it’s been deliberately erased from everything around it. You glance at El, and she looks just as uneasy as you feel.

“Let’s go,” you mutter, pushing the door open.

You both walk toward the entrance, slower this time, more cautious. When you reach the door, El tries to push it open, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. She turns to you, brows knitting together. “What now?”

Before you can answer, the door creaks open from the inside. The same bouncer steps into view, and for a second you don’t recognize him. Then it clicks—the same sharp, heavy-lidded eyes, the same detached, almost stoned expression. It feels like no time has passed. His gaze drags over both of you, slow and deliberate, lingering a little too long on your bare legs, and you instantly regret dressing up for the bar tonight.

“You’re late,” he says, voice rough. “Let people in an hour ago.”

You don’t bother arguing. You reach into your purse, pull out a bill, and press it against his chest. He catches it easily, glancing down before tucking it away. A smirk pulls at his mouth. “Would’ve preferred you in my arms,” he mutters. You grimace, not even hiding your disgust this time, while El’s grip tightens around your hand as the door opens wider and you both slip inside.

The moment you step down the stairs, the noise hits—loud, heavy, suffocating. The smell follows right after. Sweat, weed, alcohol. It’s exactly how you remember it, maybe worse. The main area is completely packed, even more than last time, bodies pressed together so tightly it feels impossible to move. You barely even glance toward the ring. That’s not why you’re here.

“Room,” you remind El, leaning closer so she can hear you.

She nods quickly, already following your lead as you both start pushing through the crowd, weaving between people with purpose. You keep your focus forward, mentally retracing the path from last time. The stairs. The hallway. That door. That’s where you last saw Mario, and right now, that’s the only place that matters.

“El—this way,” you say, tugging her slightly as you manage to break away from the tightest part of the crowd and angle toward the stairs. There are still people gathered there, but it’s easier to move, easier to breathe. “We check the room first. If he’s not there, we’ll figure something else out.”

The microphone cuts in, sharp and loud, but you don’t stop. The announcer’s voice blends into the background as you keep moving, slipping past another group, already stepping toward the hallway. You’re close now, close enough that you can almost see the door in your mind.

“…and tonight,” the voice drawls.

You ignore it.

“First time in the ring—”

Still moving.

“—and bold enough to throw down a challenge—”

You’re already turning, already heading for the hallway.

“—challenging JK himself—”

The crowd reacts loudly, but it barely registers. You’re focused on getting there, on finding him before anything else can go wrong.

“And let’s hear it for—”

You don’t slow down.

“Maaaario.”

El stops so abruptly it almost throws you into her back, your steps catching at the last second as the name echoes through the space. For a moment it doesn’t register—not fully. It stretches out in the air, swallowed and amplified by the crowd’s reaction, like your brain refuses to connect it to anything real.

Then it hits.

Your body goes still as your mind catches up, the realization crashing in all at once. Around you, the crowd erupts, louder than before, excitement surging like this is exactly what they came for. El doesn’t move in front of you, her posture rigid, and your hand tightens slightly where you’re still holding onto her.

Neither of you says anything.

Because you both heard it.

And suddenly, finding Mario doesn’t feel like a question anymore.

It feels like a problem.

The countdown starts somewhere above the noise, the announcer stretching each number out like he’s feeding the crowd. It barely registers at first, your mind still stuck on the name you just heard, but then the final number hits and everything erupts at once. Before you can even think, the fight begins.

You and El move at the same time without saying a word. There’s no hesitation now, just urgency as you push into the crowd, forcing your way through bodies that don’t want to move. Shoulders slam into you, someone curses, another shoves you aside, but no one really stops you. They’re too focused on the ring, too caught up in the fight to care about anything else. The noise is overwhelming—yells, cheers, fists hitting metal—and it makes your chest tighten because you can’t see anything. Not knowing what’s happening somehow feels worse than seeing it.

El takes the lead, using her strength to pry a path open, her grip tight around your wrist as she drags you forward. You stumble after her, trying to keep up as she forces space where there isn’t any. It feels endless, like you’re stuck in a wall of bodies that won’t break, but eventually it does. You reach the ring, not close enough to touch it comfortably, but close enough to see.

And what you see makes your breath catch.

Mario is on the ground, one hand pressed to his face as blood spills from his nose. He looks disoriented, struggling to steady himself, and for a second it doesn’t even register as a fight. It looks like damage, like something that’s already gone too far. Your fingers slip through the fence without you thinking, gripping the cold metal as your eyes dart to his opponent.

JK is circling him.

Not rushing, not pressing—just waiting. There’s something unsettling about the way he moves, controlled and calm, like he already knows exactly how this ends. He lets Mario struggle, lets him try to get up, almost like he’s giving him space on purpose. Like he’s drawing it out.

Your stomach twists as you try to make sense of it. Can’t he just stop it? Can Mario tap out? Are there even rules here?

You don’t know.

“Oh my god,” El whispers beside you, her voice tight with fear.

“Come on,” you say under your breath, gripping the fence harder. “Get up. Get up.”

There’s no way he can hear you through the chaos, and yet somehow he moves. Mario pushes himself up, unsteady, barely holding his balance as he spits blood onto the ground. The sight makes your stomach churn, but he lifts his hands again, trying to reset, trying to fight.

He throws the first punch, driven more by instinct than skill. It’s messy, desperate, lacking control, but it’s something. JK avoids it easily, shifting just enough for it to miss. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK moves around him like it’s nothing. There’s no panic in him, no rush. Just patience.

Then he strikes.

It’s quick. Sharp. Clean.

The first hit snaps Mario’s head to the side, the second lands before he can recover, and the third sends him stumbling backward. JK doesn’t overextend, doesn’t waste movement—every punch is calculated, deliberate, landing exactly where it needs to. Mario tries to hold his ground, but it’s obvious now. He’s outmatched.

One more hit lands, harder than the rest, and it drops him.

You gasp, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it as Mario hits the ground again. His face is already swelling, one eye starting to close, blood spreading across his skin in a way that makes your chest tighten painfully.

“Mario!” you shout, panic rising fast. “Get up!”

El is yelling too now, her voice breaking as she calls his name, the two of you pressed against the fence, desperate, urging him to move, to stay conscious, to do anything. The fear settles deep in your chest because what if he doesn’t get up this time? What if this doesn’t stop?

Mario shifts slightly, barely lifting his head, and then his gaze turns. Not toward JK, not toward the crowd—but toward you.

People cheer.

The sight of his face makes something in you twist. Swollen, bloodied, barely recognizable, and still he finds you in the chaos. Your breath hitches as you realize he sees you here.

JK notices.

It’s subtle at first, just a shift in his focus, the way his eyes narrow as he follows Mario’s line of sight. And then he looks at you. Really looks, his gaze locking onto yours in a way that feels too direct, too aware.

For a second, everything feels still.

Then he moves.

He crouches beside Mario, and your stomach drops as his hand shoots out, fingers tangling into Mario’s hair. The grip is tight, controlling, forcing his head up despite the lack of resistance. Mario barely reacts, his body too weak to fight back, and panic spikes in your chest.

JK doesn’t look away from you. His dark hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin barely marked compared to Mario’s. Like this fight hasn’t cost him anything.

And then he smirks.

Your chest tightens as his grip tightens with it, lifting Mario’s head just enough—

Before slamming it back down against the ground.

The sound is sickening.

It cuts through everything.

Mario goes limp.

And for a second, you don’t breathe, don’t move, don’t think. You just stare, because something in you knows that whatever line there was before, it’s gone now.

The sound crashes back all at once, loud and overwhelming, like nothing just happened. Like what you just saw is entertainment, nothing more. JK steps back, the win clearly his, and the fence is already being opened for him as if it was expected. Of course it was. He walks out without a glance back, already moving on while the crowd feeds off the aftermath.

You don’t.

You can’t.

Two men enter the ring almost immediately, grabbing Mario under his arms and hauling him up. His body hangs between them, limp, unresponsive, his head lolling slightly with the movement. The sight knocks the air out of your lungs.

You force yourself to move.

Your throat tightens as you swallow hard, shaking yourself out of the daze as you grab El’s arm. “Come on,” you manage, your voice barely steady, your eyes locked on Mario as they carry him away.

You follow them.

They move fast, cutting through a path that clears easier for them than it ever did for you. When you and El catch up, one of the men glances back, clearly annoyed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes you in. El’s panicked whispers don’t help.

“Oh my god… Mario, we’re here. You’re gonna be okay—”

“Hey,” one of the men snaps. “You can’t—”

“He’s our friend,” you cut in quickly, your voice sharper than you expect. “We’re staying. Where are you taking him?”

They don’t look like they want to deal with you. Not now. Not with this. The two of them exchange a look, something silent passing between them before one sighs, clearly deciding it’s not worth the argument.

“He’s getting treated,” he says shortly, already turning away.

You don’t ask by whom. You just follow.

The hallway feels tighter this time, the noise from the main area fading behind you as they lead you into one of the rooms. It’s smaller than you expected, cramped and worn, with dented lockers lining one wall and a narrow bed in the center that looks like it once belonged in a hospital.

They set Mario down without much care. His body barely reacts, his head rolling slightly to the side, and something in your chest twists painfully at how still he is.

You and El move immediately, stopping just short of touching him, both of you hovering, afraid of making it worse.

The door opens again.

A young man steps in, probably in his early twenties, maybe a bit older, his build lean but steady. He’s dressed simply—dark shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows—and there’s a certain efficiency in the way he moves, like he’s done this too many times to think about it. His hair is slightly messy, falling into his eyes as he pulls on a pair of gloves, his expression focused rather than concerned.

“What do we have this time?” he asks, glancing over Mario with quick, practiced eyes.

“Probably a broken nose. Maybe more,” one of the men replies.

The young man exhales quietly, stepping closer to the bed as he tilts Mario’s head slightly, inspecting the damage without hesitation. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Another one who thought he could last longer than he actually could.”

Mario gets treated like you and El aren’t even there.

The young man moves around him with quiet efficiency, cleaning the blood, checking his nose, pressing gauze where it’s needed. The two men who carried him in linger for a moment before stepping aside, talking in low voices, completely unfazed. It’s like this is routine. Like people getting carried in half-conscious isn’t anything out of the ordinary.

You can’t stand still.

You start pacing the small room, your steps short and sharp, your arms crossed tight over your chest as your thoughts spiral. No matter how hard you try to focus on Mario, your mind keeps dragging you back to the ring—to that moment. The way JK looked at you. The way he made sure you saw it. That last hit.

The way Mario just… stopped.

Your jaw tightens.

Even when Mario lets out a low groan, shifting slightly on the bed, it doesn’t pull you out of it. El is at his side immediately, her voice soft but urgent as she leans closer. “Mario? Hey—can you hear me?” He mumbles something incoherent, his words slurred, barely forming, and El glances up, worry etched all over her face. “Doesn’t he need a hospital?”

The young man doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. “If he goes to a hospital, questions get asked,” he says flatly. “Police get involved.”

“Maybe they should,” you cut in sharply, stopping your pacing to look at him. “Maybe that would finally shut this place down.”

That gets his attention.

He shoots you a look, sharp and unimpressed. “Hate to break it to you,” he says, tone edged with something colder now, “but your friend would be the one in trouble. This is illegal. He signed up for it.”

You don’t care.

You don’t care what he says, what excuses they have, what twisted logic they follow in this place.

Your anger is already too far gone.

“Where is he?” you ask suddenly.

The room stills for a second.

“Who?” one of the men asks.

You look at him like it should be obvious. “JK.”

They exchange a glance, something unreadable passing between them. “Why?” the other one mutters.

You don’t answer that.

You just look at El. “Stay here. Keep an eye on him.”

She blinks at you, clearly trying to figure out what you’re about to do. “Wait—”

But you’re already moving.

You leave before she can stop you, before anyone can question you further, your steps quick and determined as you head back down the hall. You don’t even know if he’s still there, if he went back to that room or somewhere else entirely, but you don’t stop to think about it.

You’re too angry to think.

You reach the door and push it open hard.

Empty.

The room looks exactly the same as before—the couch, the chair, the faint trace of something cleaner in the air compared to the rest of the place—but he’s not there. You step further in, scanning it anyway, like he might suddenly appear.

“Where the hell—”

The door opens behind you.

You turn immediately.

JK stands there.

He doesn’t look surprised to see someone in the room. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed, like you’re an inconvenience he didn’t feel like dealing with tonight. His hair is wet, strands sticking to his forehead, steam still curling faintly from the doorway behind him—bathroom, you realize. He’s changed, now wearing a pair of dark cotton shorts, a towel in his hands that he uses once before tossing it aside onto the couch like it doesn’t matter.

Like nothing matters.

He doesn’t even acknowledge you.

That’s what sets you off.

Before you can think, you’re already moving toward him, anger taking over completely as you shove both hands against his chest. The contact is solid—his skin still warm from the shower, heat lingering under your palms, his muscles hard and unyielding beneath your push. It’s like trying to move a wall.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snap, your voice sharp with fury. “You could’ve killed him!”

He barely moves.

Not even a step back.

Just stands there, looking down at you as if you’re something mildly irritating, one brow lifting slightly as your hair falls out of place from the force of your movement.

“You done?” he asks.

The words hit harder than they should.

You freeze for half a second, caught off guard—not just by how close he is, not just by hearing his voice directed at you for the first time, but by how little he seems to care.

“Not entirely,” you snap back, your anger flaring again as you move to shove him once more.

This time, he catches your wrist.

Effortlessly.

His grip is firm, stopping you mid-motion like it’s nothing, like you weren’t even a challenge to begin with.

“You’re a piece of shit,” you tell him, your voice tight.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, slow and unimpressed. “And yet,” he replies coolly, tilting his head slightly as his grip doesn’t loosen, “your friend stepped into the ring with me anyway.”

“Let me go,” you snap, yanking against him.

For a second, he just watches you, completely unimpressed, like this is nothing new to him.

Then he lets go.

Abruptly.

You stumble back a step as he pushes you away, not rough enough to hurt, but enough to put distance between you, like he’s brushing something off.

“Careful,” he says, voice low, almost amused, “you’re gonna hurt yourself before you even get close to hurting me.”

The arrogance in his tone only makes your blood boil more.

The arrogance in his tone only makes your blood boil more.

“You’re an arrogant prick,” you snap without hesitation, your voice sharp enough to cut through whatever calm he’s pretending to have. “Do you feel good about it? Almost killing people for a bunch of money?”

Something shifts.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. The smirk fades just enough, his eyes darkening as he looks at you, really looks this time.

“Out,” he says.

You don’t move.

You don’t even consider it.

“You’re in no position to tell me what to do,” you fire back immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t justify himself.

That only makes it worse.

You step closer again, closing the distance, your finger lifting as you point it toward his chest. “You don’t get to act like this is normal. Like you’re not the problem here.”

His hand moves before you can react.

Fast.

Your wrist is caught again, but this time there’s no patience behind it. No casual ease. Just control.

“You’re pushing it,” he says, voice low, edged with warning.

“Good,” you snap, trying to yank your hand free. “Maybe someone should—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

In one swift movement, he turns you, your back hitting the wall with a dull thud before you can process what just happened. Your breath catches as he pins your arms behind you, one hand locking both of your wrists in place, the other braced near your shoulder, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

The shift is instant.

You’re not in control anymore.

Your heart jumps, adrenaline spiking as you struggle against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s stronger, faster, and far too used to this kind of contact.

He leans in slightly, just enough for you to feel the heat still radiating off his skin.

“You talk a lot,” he mutters, his grip tightening just enough to keep you from trying anything else, “for someone who has no idea what she just walked into.”

His hand still holds your wrists behind your back, and now his other arm shifts slightly, boxing you in. The heat from his body hasn’t faded yet, his skin still warm under the dim light, his breath just brushing near your ear without quite touching.

Your pulse spikes despite yourself.

“Yeah?” you manage, your voice tighter than you’d like. “What did I walk into?”

There’s a beat.

Short.

Deliberate.

Then—

“A place you don’t belong,” he says quietly, voice low and steady, right by your ear.

No hesitation. No explanation.

Just fact.

His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you he’s still in control.

“And a fight you can’t win.”

He lets go of you.

The shift is sudden enough that you almost stumble forward before catching yourself. You turn on him immediately, your chest rising and falling too fast, your pulse still racing from the proximity, from the grip, from everything. For a second, you just stare at him, trying to steady yourself, trying to hold onto the anger that brought you here in the first place.

“Leave,” he says.

Just like that. Flat. Dismissive.

You blink at him, still catching your breath. You don’t even know what you expected coming here—an apology, a reaction, something—but all you got was this. Him. Unbothered. Untouched. Like what happened in that ring meant nothing.

You open your mouth, but before you can say anything—

The door swings open.

A blonde woman steps in, her energy shifting the moment she notices you. The grin she walked in with disappears almost instantly, her eyes flicking between you and him, lingering a second too long on the fact that he’s still shirtless.

The air changes.

“Who’s this?” she asks, her tone edged, curious but already leaning toward annoyed.

Jungkook doesn’t rush to answer. He doesn’t even look at her right away. Instead, he grabs an oversized shirt, pulling it over his head like this conversation doesn’t concern him in the slightest.

“She’s leaving,” he says, like that’s enough.

You let out a sharp scoff. “The hell I am.”

That gets a reaction.

Not from her.

From him.

It’s subtle—just the corner of his mouth pulling into something that almost resembles a grin, like he finds you more entertaining than anything else. It’s not warm. Not kind.

Provocative.

The blonde woman shifts her weight, clearly irritated now, her gaze narrowing slightly as she looks at you again. “I think you heard him.”

You don’t move.

Not an inch.

“I heard him,” you reply coolly. “I just don’t care.”

Her annoyance sharpens, visible now, but Jungkook doesn’t step in. Doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t repeat himself. If anything, he looks more interested now, watching the tension build like it’s something worth his time.

The woman steps further into the room, and now that you actually look at her, it’s obvious. The red dress clings to her body, cut far too short to be anything but intentional, the fabric hugging her curves like she walked in here knowing exactly what she came for.

Not the fight.

Him.

You almost snort at the realization.

She barely spares you another glance before her attention shifts fully to Jungkook, like you’ve already been dismissed. “You were incredible tonight,” she says, her tone smoothing out into something softer, almost impressed. “I was here. Watched the whole thing.”

Jungkook doesn’t react the way she expects.

He doesn’t even look at her.

“Good,” he says simply, already reaching for a bag that looks like his, slinging it over his shoulder like the conversation means nothing.

The woman doesn’t seem discouraged.

If anything, she leans into it.

She steps closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like she’s used to getting attention this way. And maybe she is. But this time, there’s something else in it too—something sharper. When she shifts closer to him, her gaze flicks to you for just a second.

Oh.

There it is.

She sees you as a problem.

A threat.

The realization makes something in you click—and instead of being bothered, you grin.

Actually grin.

You shake your head lightly, almost amused now as you look between them. 

Her hand brushes lightly against his arm, her voice dropping as she says something under her breath, something meant just for him.

JK finally looks at her.

Not interested. Not even tempted.

“Not tonight,” he says flatly, pulling his arm away without hesitation. There’s no softness in it, no apology. Just a quiet finality that lands harder than anything else.

It’s enough.

Her expression tightens, the confidence slipping just slightly as she straightens, clearly not satisfied with the answer. For a second, it looks like she might push it, but she doesn’t. Instead, she exhales sharply, shooting you one last look before turning on her heel and walking out.

The door closes behind her.

Silence settles for a beat.

Then his attention shifts.

Back to you.

And this time, there’s no amusement left in it.

Just irritation.

“You’re still here,” he says, like it’s a problem that hasn’t fixed itself yet.

You let out a sharp breath, disbelief mixing with the anger that never really left.

“I can’t believe you,” you say, your voice tight, almost shaking. “You just walk out of there like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t even happen.”

He doesn’t respond.

That only makes it worse.

“Mario is in there,” you continue, stepping closer again, your frustration building all over again. “Barely conscious, coming in and out of it—and you’re just… here. Moving on. Like this is normal.”

Your eyes flick briefly to the door, then back to him.

“And what, now it’s back to this?” you add, your tone sharper. “Girls lining up because you won? Like that’s all this is to you?”

His expression barely shifts.

If anything, it hardens.

He doesn’t react the way you expect.

No apology. No defense.

Instead, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a thick fold of cash, and before you can even register it, he grabs your hand and forces it open, pressing the money into your palm.

“Enough?” he asks, tone flat. “Or you gonna keep talking?”

You stare down at it for half a second, disbelief hitting first, then anger flooding right after.

You’re about to throw it straight back at him—

But he speaks again.

“Give it to him,” he adds, nodding slightly toward the door. “Call it… a consolation prize.”

There’s a pause, just enough for it to land.

Then, quieter, with that same careless edge, “For getting dropped that fast.”

Your fingers tighten around the money without you meaning to, your jaw clenching as the insult settles heavy in the air.

Before you can react—

He moves.

It’s quick. Too quick.

His hand comes up, and his thumb brushes over the corner of your lips, slow enough to feel deliberate, wiping at something you didn’t even realize was there. The touch is brief, but it lands heavier than it should, heat lingering where his skin just was.

You freeze.

Not because you want to.

Because you didn’t expect it.

He pulls his hand back, glancing at his thumb like he’s checking the faint smear of red before letting out a quiet, almost amused breath.

“Fix yourself,” he says, voice low, edged with something mocking. “Wouldn’t want you going back to your guy looking like that.”

His eyes flick back up to yours, that same faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Lipstick’s smudged, Red.”

And just like that, he’s done. He grabs his bag, throws it over his shoulder, and walks past you without another glance, like the conversation never mattered to him in the first place, like you never mattered enough to leave an impression. The bag shifts as he moves, heavy, the faint rustle unmistakable—you don’t even need to look twice to know it’s stuffed with cash. Easy money. Hard-earned in all the wrong ways. He carries it like it’s nothing.

The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, and the shift is immediate—the room falling into a stillness that feels almost unnatural after everything that just happened.

The silence presses in, heavy and unfamiliar. The faint trace of his cologne lingers in the air—something sharp, clean, expensive—cutting through the stale mix of sweat and smoke that clings to everything else in this place. It doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t fit the cracked walls, the worn furniture, the quiet evidence of violence that lingers in every corner. And somehow, neither does he, even though he clearly owns it.

You don’t move right away. Your hand is still loosely curled around the cash he forced into your palm, your other lifting without you realizing it, fingers hovering near your lips where his thumb had brushed just moments ago. The sensation is gone, but not really. It lingers in your head, in the way your body reacts before your mind can catch up, and that alone is enough to make your jaw tighten.

Your heartbeat hasn’t slowed. If anything, it’s worse now—faster than it was before you even walked in here, louder in your ears, harder to ignore. You swallow, forcing your hand to drop, grounding yourself, dragging your focus back to something real. Back to why you came here in the first place.

Because whatever that was, whatever just passed between you and him, it doesn’t matter.

Mario is still down the hall, hurt, barely conscious, and this place hasn’t changed just because you stepped into one room and out of another. It’s still exactly what you thought it was—a place where violence is entertainment, where people walk in and don’t always walk out the same, and where no one stops to care what happens once the fight is over.

With each step closer, the music’s beat grows heavier and lower, like your own heartbeat. There’s no reason to be scared—just cautious—as you sneak a glance at a bald, muscular man who looks intoxicated and ready to chew someone’s head off.

This is no fancy club. There are no velvet ropes, no long lines, no excitement lingering in the air. At least, not for you.

If it weren’t for a twist of events, you would never come here voluntarily. Your outfit says otherwise, though.

You stand close to your friends, practically glued to their sides, as the man who looks like a straight-up junkie moves toward the club’s door. Oh, he’s the bouncer.

As he eyes all of you with empty orbs, part of you wishes he would turn you away and not let you enter this place. Your wish isn’t fulfilled. The bouncer gives Mario a curt nod, and that’s all it takes for your friend to lead the way.

As soon as the door opens, the music becomes sharper and clearer. There’s only a small space before it leads downstairs to the basement. This place is everything a mother would tell you to avoid.

Good thing you don’t have one.

Neon lights grow more visible with each step, covering the floor in flickering electric pink, acid green, and colors you don’t even get to notice as they shift too quickly. As you make it down to the main room, your mouth drops—and so does your heart.

The place is packed, so much so that it makes you question if it’s really that good. The exterior alone—the entire neighborhood—is just not it. How does Mario even know a place like this? How does he even know this part of town?

You make a mental note to question him later, because he sure as hell didn’t mention any of it. All he said was that the booze is cheap and the place is fine. If leaving means paying more for the few shots you’re about to have, so be it.

From the looks of it, everyone else is on board and follows him.

The air is thick with a mixture of scents you can’t even name. There’s a distinct smell of cigarettes, weed, and perfume—the rest, you’d rather not identify. By the time you’re out of here, you’ll reek of this place and probably have to burn the nice dress you’re wearing.

Mario promised he was only dropping something off, so this should be quick— in and out. It should be quick enough for you to grab a drink and hopefully head somewhere else.

El leans closer, her shoulder bumping into yours as she tries to be heard over the pounding music. Her voice still barely cuts through it.

“What is this place?”

You follow her gaze—and that’s when you see it.

Ahead of you, past the blur of bodies and neon light, there’s a ring. Not the kind you’d expect. Not clean, not professional. A fence cages it in completely, metal bars rising high enough to make it feel less like a sport and more like containment. Like whatever goes in there isn’t supposed to get out.

It looks barbaric. Primal. Like it was built for animals.

And the people gathered around it—too many, too eager—aren’t just passing by. They’re waiting.

You swallow, leaning in so El can hear you.

“It looks like a nightmare.”

El lets out a short breath that might be a laugh, might be something else. She tilts her head, eyes scanning the ring with something closer to curiosity than concern.

“I’ve been to worse.”

For once, you don’t question her.

El’s always been the one to drift into places like this without hesitation, coming back with stories she tells like they’re nothing—like they didn’t happen. You used to think she exaggerated.

Now, standing here, you’re not so sure.

The crowd shifts, tightening around the fence as if pulled by the same invisible string. Someone shoves past you, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to them. Another voice shouts something you can’t make out, swallowed whole by the bass.

You glance around for Mario, but he’s already a few steps ahead, carving a path like he belongs here.

That doesn’t sit right.

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides, the fabric of your dress suddenly feeling too thin, too out of place in a room like this. The air presses in, thick and suffocating, buzzing with anticipation.

Whatever is about to happen in that ring—

You’re not sure you want to see it.

But the crowd isn’t leaving.

And neither are you.

Mario weaves through the crowd like he’s done it a hundred times, barely checking if you and El are still behind him. You push through shoulders and elbows, the press of bodies tightening the closer you get to the fenced ring.

He finally stops, gesturing toward a narrow stretch of space wedged between a rusted railing and a couple already arguing over something you can’t hear.

“Here.”

Seats is a generous word. It’s more like a claimed patch of ground—third row, if you had to guess. Not close enough to touch the fence, but close enough that whatever happens in there won’t be easy to ignore.

You glance toward the ring again.

Up close, it’s worse.

The ground inside looks… wrong. Like it’s been scraped clean over and over again. The surface is uneven, rough in places—but there are faint traces that didn’t quite disappear. Darker patches. Stains that the dim, flickering lights can’t fully hide.

Your stomach tightens.

Mario claps his hands once, like he’s wrapping something up. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What do you mean stay here? What the hell is this place?”

He sighs, but it’s not sharp or annoyed—more like he just doesn’t have the energy for this right now. His eyes flick briefly toward the ring, then back to you.

“I’ll get you your drinks,” he says, already half-turning away. “What d’you want?”

You hesitate, glancing around again—the crowd, the fence, the floor inside the ring.

“I’m not sure I want to drink anything from this place.”

El snorts beside you, loud enough to earn a glance from someone nearby.

Mario rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a snob.”

You scoff immediately. “I’m not—”

“We’ll have vodka,” El cuts in, waving a hand like she’s sealing the deal.

Mario nods once, like that settles everything, and disappears back into the crowd before you can argue further.

For a second, it’s just you and El, the noise, the heat—

And then the music cuts.

Just like that.

A sharp hum of feedback cuts through the silence, and a man’s voice follows, loud and grating through the speakers.

“Alright, alright—eyes up!”

You look toward the ring.

The man holding the microphone steps into the light, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you should take him seriously. He looks like he’s somewhere in his forties, head completely shaved, his clothes hanging off him like they don’t belong to him—too big, too worn, sleeves slipping past his wrists. The kind of outfit that looks like it was pulled from one of those street donation bins, the ones meant for charity but always picked through before anything gets there.

He has that same look, too.

Like the kind of guy you’d cross the street to avoid.

But here—here, he owns the room.

“Welcome, you animals!” he shouts, grinning wide enough to show crooked teeth. “You came hungry tonight, yeah?”

A laugh almost slips out of you.

It’s not even that funny—but something about the way he says it, like he means it, like he’s not talking to the crowd but about them, hits in a strange way. Humor, sharp and dry, cuts through the unease curling in your stomach.

Because you already have a feeling what that ring is for.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

The reaction is instant.

The crowd erupts—loud, aggressive, overwhelming. It slams into you from all sides, so intense it makes you flinch. It’s not just cheering. It’s something rougher. Hungrier.

You hadn’t realized how many men were packed into this place until now. Your stomach twists.

The man laughs into the mic, feeding off it. “That’s what I like to hear!”

He paces along the edge of the fenced ring, dragging the moment out before throwing one arm toward the entrance on the opposite side.

“Let’s not waste time. Get ready for your first fighter of the night—give it up for…” he pauses, milking it, “…Blue Viper!”

The name hits, and the crowd roars again.

A man steps into the ring.

He’s lean, all sharp lines and defined muscle, abs catching the harsh lights as he moves. Royal blue shorts hang low on his hips, matching gloves already strapped tight around his hands. He lifts his arms the second he steps inside, like he’s already won, soaking in the noise like it belongs to him.

It probably does.

“What the fuck,” you mumble under your breath.

Beside you, El swallows, eyes fixed on the ring.

“How does Mario even know about this place?” you add, quieter now, like saying it too loud might make it worse.

But there’s no time to think. The man with the mic raises his hand again, the crowd slowly settling—not quiet, never quiet, just waiting.

“And his opponent…” he continues, voice dropping just enough to build it back up, “—ah, this one doesn’t need much of an introduction.”

A ripple moves through the crowd. You feel it before you understand it.

“He’s your favorite,” the man grins. “Your undefeated—your JK!”

For a split second, your brain doesn’t catch up.

And then—

The crowd explodes. Louder than before. Wilder. People shouting, pushing forward, fists hitting the fence.

The fence door screeches as it’s pulled open.

And then he steps in.

JK.

The noise swells instantly, people pressing closer, shouting his name like it means something—like he means something. But he doesn’t even acknowledge it. Not a glance, not a flicker. His focus is locked straight ahead.

On his opponent.

He moves like he already knows how this ends.

Every step is controlled, deliberate. His body shifts under the harsh lights, all muscle and definition—abs tight, arms flexing with even the smallest movement. There’s no wasted motion in him. No nerves. Just quiet, coiled readiness.

His opponent tries to hold his ground, but you catch it—the slight tension in his stance, the way his shoulders tighten under JK’s stare.

Like he already feels it.

Up close, you catch more of him. A sharp jawline, clean and defined, his expression unreadable. When he turns slightly, the line of his back comes into view—lean, strong, every muscle moving under his skin like it’s carved there.

You hate to admit it.

But—yeah. He’s hot.

And apparently, you’re not the only one who noticed.

You glance at El, and—

Right. Of course.

She’s staring at him like she just found religion, eyes practically sparkling.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes. “Suddenly I like being here.”

You snort, shaking your head, even though your own attention has definitely sharpened.

Still…

Your gaze drifts back to the ring, to the fence, to the crowd pressing in like this is the only thing that matters. You’re not sure you like this.

Because it’s obvious now. This isn’t just some weird club attraction. This is underground fighting—illegal, brutal, the kind of thing people don’t talk about in daylight.

And somehow, Mario brought you here.

Of all places.

Your brows pull together slightly as you scan the crowd again, unease settling back in.

Mario has always had… questionable connections. The kind you and El never really asked about, choosing instead to ignore whatever didn’t fit into your version of him.

Mario slips back beside you like he never left, pressing a cold glass into your hand. “What’d I miss?” he asks, far too casually.

You turn to him immediately, irritation rising. “What the hell is this, Mario? What are we doing here—and how did you think this was a good idea?”

He exhales, already looking like he doesn’t want to deal with this conversation, but you don’t let up.

“Seriously. This place—this isn’t normal.”

El doesn’t even glance at him. Her attention is locked on the ring, eyes sharp with interest, like she’s already decided this is worth watching. You, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about the cage, the crowd, the way everyone seemed to be waiting for something violent to happen.

“What is this place?” you ask again, quieter now, but no less firm.

Before he can answer, a sharp bell rings out, cutting through the noise and pulling every ounce of attention back to the ring.

The fight starts instantly. The other guy lunges first, throwing a punch that should land—but JK shifts just enough for it to miss, his movement so subtle it almost looks lazy. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK slips past them with controlled precision, like he’s already mapped out every move before it happens.

You don’t even realize your grip on the glass has tightened until your fingers start to ache. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves—smooth, efficient, completely unbothered. He doesn’t rush or panic, doesn’t even try to overpower. He just watches, waits, and lets the other guy wear himself down.

For a moment, it almost feels intentional, like he’s letting him try.

Taunting him.

The thought settles just as the other man commits to another strike, stepping in harder this time, putting everything behind it—and that’s when JK finally moves forward. His fist connects cleanly, the impact sharp enough to echo even through the roar of the crowd, sending the man stumbling back until his body slams into the fence with a harsh metallic rattle.

The reaction around you is immediate and overwhelming, the crowd exploding with noise that makes your brows pull together as it crashes into you from all sides. But your focus stays on the ring, on the thin line of blood already slipping from the man’s nose, stark against his skin.

Your stomach twists, but not enough to make you look away.

Without thinking, you lift the drink Mario handed you and down it in one go, ignoring the burn, the taste, the suffocating thickness of the air. Your eyes stay locked on the fight, tracking every movement, every shift.

And somewhere in the middle of it, you realize your attention isn’t just caught—

it’s hooked.

The fight doesn’t slow down—it shifts entirely in JK’s favor.

Once the other man hits the ground, something in JK changes. Whatever restraint he had disappears as he follows him down without hesitation, delivering punch after punch with the same controlled force. Each hit lands with a dull, sickening impact, the sound carrying even through the roar of the crowd.

The man barely manages to get his arms up, but it doesn’t do much. Blood spreads quickly—across his face, down his chest, soaking into the already worn surface beneath him. Those faint stains you noticed earlier are no longer subtle. They’re fresh now, darker, undeniable.

JK’s gloves are black, thick. The color hides most of the blood, swallowing it instead of putting it on display, but not entirely. A darker sheen clings to them, catching under the harsh lights every time his fists rise and fall.

Your stomach tightens as the noise around you grows louder, more aggressive, feeding into every hit instead of pulling back from it. It starts to feel like too much—too close, too real, too far past the point where someone should have stepped in already.

“Mario,” you say, leaning toward him, your voice strained as you try to be heard over the chaos. “Is there—do they have a restroom or something?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his attention still fixed on the ring, jaw set like he’s invested in how this ends. For a second, you think he didn’t even hear you, but then he glances over, quick and distracted. “Yeah. Down the hall, to the left.”

You nod, already shifting your weight as you turn to El. “Come with me.”

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even look at you. Her eyes stay locked on the ring, her expression sharper than before, completely absorbed in what’s happening. It catches you off guard, enough that you pause for a second, staring at her like you don’t quite recognize this version of her.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, but she doesn’t react, and it leaves you standing there alone with the noise pressing back in.

Because the fight wasn’t bad at first—it was controlled, almost impressive in a way you didn’t expect—but this is different. This is something else entirely.

Your gaze drifts back to the ring despite yourself, catching the way the man on the ground jerks under another hit, a broken grunt slipping from him as he tries to move, to shield himself, to do anything at all. No one steps in. No one even looks like they’re thinking about it.

A cold thought settles in as you watch.

You hope this isn’t one of those fights—the kind that doesn’t end until someone doesn’t get back up—because the way that man looks right now, barely moving, barely holding on, makes it hard not to think he’s already getting close.

Before you can see anything else, you’ve had enough.

You don’t care how dodgy this place looks anymore—only that you need a second to breathe. The thought crosses your mind, sharp and unwelcome, that walking out alone probably isn’t the smartest idea. A single woman slipping away from a crowd like this doesn’t exactly scream safe. Still, you push it aside, stand up, and follow the direction Mario gave you.

The further you move from the ring, the more the place reveals itself—and none of it is reassuring. The air is thick with alcohol and weed, clinging to the walls, to your skin, to the back of your throat. The dim lighting doesn’t help, casting everything in a dull, grimy glow that makes even the hallway feel like somewhere you shouldn’t be.

You tug your dress down instinctively, suddenly too aware of how short it is, how out of place you feel. The red lipstick you put on earlier now seems like a mistake. If only you had known where you were coming.

The restroom is worse.

One look inside is enough. The smell hits first, then the stained tiles, the flickering light, the general state of neglect that makes your stomach turn. You don’t even consider using it. Instead, you step up to the sink, eyes lifting to the mirror.

You look… composed.

More than you expected, at least. Even with the frown that’s probably been stuck on your face since you walked in, you don’t look shaken. Not on the outside.

You turn on the tap, rinsing your hands out of habit more than anything, the faint taste of vodka still lingering on your tongue. Somewhere in the distance, even from down the hall, you can still hear it—the cheers, muffled but persistent, like a reminder that whatever is happening in that ring hasn’t slowed down.

You don’t want to be here.

But you also don’t want to be left out.

The thought pushes you into motion again. You dry your hands quickly and head back out, picking up your pace as you move down the hallway, unease settling deeper with every step. The walls are lined with old posters, most of them ripped or peeling, leaving behind only fragments—faces without names, events long gone, nothing fully readable.

It only adds to the feeling that you shouldn’t be here.

You’re halfway down when it happens.

You nearly stop in your tracks.

He’s there.

The man from the ring—the one who was just getting beaten—walking toward you like nothing happened. Up close, it’s worse. Blood still clings to him, smeared across his face and chest, his steps uneven, his body barely holding itself together.

And behind him—

The man with the microphone follows, saying something you can’t quite catch.

Your attention snaps forward again.

Because coming straight toward you—

JK.

He’s already out of the ring, moving fast, like the fight meant nothing. The gloves are gone, replaced by white wraps around his hands, slightly darkened in places. His hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin glistening under the dim lights as he closes the distance without slowing down.

For a second, you freeze.

Then instinct kicks in and you step aside quickly, pressing yourself against the wall just as he passes. He doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t acknowledge you at all.

It’s like you’re not even there.

Like if you hadn’t moved—

He would’ve walked straight through you.

Your thoughts barely have time to settle before they’re cut off.

“El—?”

She rushes into view, nearly colliding with you, her expression completely different from the one she had just minutes ago. Whatever excitement she had is gone, replaced with something far more overwhelmed, almost frantic.

“I need the bathroom,” she blurts out, slightly breathless. “Like, right now. I had—shit—I had like three shots in five minutes.”

You blink at her, still catching up. “Where’s Mario?”

El glances back over her shoulder, like she expects him to magically appear behind her. “He said he needed to go too. Just disappeared into the crowd.”

You frown immediately.

Of course he did.

You bite back the first thing that comes to mind, irritation flaring as you glance past her, half-expecting to spot him somewhere down the hall. Nothing. Just the muffled noise from the main room and people moving around like nothing just happened.

Great.

You’ll definitely have to curse him out later—for leaving you alone earlier, even if the whole crowd had still been focused on the fight. At least then, everyone’s attention had been locked on the ring. Now? The fight is over, the tension is shifting, and you don’t even know how to guess who won.

Worse, El could’ve gotten lost in that mess.

Or someone could’ve—

You cut the thought off as your attention sharpens.

Because you can feel it now.

The looks.

They weren’t as obvious before, not when everyone had been too distracted, but now that the focus has broken, it’s different. There aren’t many women here—you’ve noticed that much—and the way some of the men look at you now makes your stomach twist. Lingering stares. Slow, knowing grins that feel far too comfortable.

You scoff under your breath, disgust curling in your chest as you turn back to El.

“The bathroom’s a nightmare,” you warn her. “Like, seriously not usable.”

El groans, clutching her stomach slightly. “I don’t care. My bladder is about to explode.”

Yeah. No arguing with that.

You nod, stepping aside to let her move past you. “Fine. Go. I’ll stay right outside.”

She doesn’t hesitate, already pushing the door open.

You stay put in the hallway, crossing your arms loosely as you position yourself near the wall, trying to look like you belong there more than you feel like you do. The noise from the main room is still there, dulled now, but enough to remind you you’re not completely alone.

Still—

You really hope no one tries to talk to you.

You don’t have to wait long before something shifts again.

Footsteps echo down the hall, heavier this time, more purposeful. A guy comes into view—blonde, maybe mid-twenties, wearing an oversized shirt that hangs loose over a pair of worn jeans. There’s nothing particularly threatening about him at first glance, but the way he carries himself makes people move.

“Get lost,” he says, voice flat, like he’s said it a hundred times before.

The men lingering too close—too interested—pause. You hadn’t even fully clocked how near they were getting until now. One of them mutters something under his breath, low and irritated, but before anything can escalate, a woman slips up beside them. She leans in, whispers something quick into one of their ears.

The reaction is immediate.

Their expressions shift, something greedy lighting up in their eyes, and just like that, they back off, leaving without another glance.

You feel your stomach turn.

Disgust settles in deep as you press your lips together, forcing yourself not to react more visibly. Whatever she said—it worked too easily.

You take a few steps further down the hall, needing the distance, the space. Behind you, the noise from the main room is starting to die down, the chaos thinning out into something more controlled. It sounds like they’re clearing people out, or at least resetting the space for whatever comes next.

That thought alone makes your skin crawl.

Ahead of you, the blonde guy reaches a door—one you hadn’t paid much attention to before—and pushes it open without hesitation.

And for a split second, you see inside.

It’s a medium-sized room, dim but cleaner than the rest of this place, like it serves a different purpose. Your brain barely has time to process the layout before something—someone—snags your attention completely.

Mario.

Standing there like he belongs.

Your breath catches, surprise hitting first, sharp and immediate. So much for the bathroom. He didn’t even come this way—the toilets are further down, you know that now.

But the shock doesn’t stop there.

Because sitting in one of the chairs—

JK.

Up close, under better light, he looks just as composed as he did in the ring, even now. Someone—a young guy, too young if you’re being honest—is crouched in front of him, carefully unwrapping the white tape from his hands. The fabric is stained in places, and as it comes loose, you catch glimpses of reddened skin underneath.

The kid works quickly, like he knows what he’s doing, like this is routine.

Of course it is.

Nothing about this place is legal. Nothing about it is normal.

Your eyes flick back to Mario, disbelief settling in heavier now. He lied. Not even well—just enough to get away from you and El without questions.

Before you can take in anything else, the door swings shut.

You’re left staring at it, mouth slightly open, like your brain hasn’t caught up to what you just saw.

Mario. In there. With him.

“El?”

She comes back a second later, pushing the bathroom door open with a relieved sigh. “Ready?”

You turn to her, still half-stunned. “I—there’s a room down here. Mario’s in it. And… the guy who was in the ring is in there too.”

El freezes. “What?”

“And some kid—like, actually a kid—is cleaning him up. I don’t even—” You shake your head, trying to piece it together. “This is weird.”

El blinks a few times, processing, then shrugs slightly. “Maybe Mario just knows people here?”

You stare at her. “That doesn’t make it less weird.”

She hesitates, glancing between you and the closed door. “So… what are we doing? Waiting?”

You frown, something in you snapping into place. You’re done waiting. Done being brushed off, lied to, dragged somewhere without knowing why.

Without another word, you step forward and push the door open.

The reaction is immediate.

Conversation cuts off mid-sentence. Every head in the room turns toward you, like you just walked into something you weren’t supposed to see.

Mario looks the worst out of all of them—caught, completely unprepared. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.

Your gaze shifts past him.

JK is still sitting, his hands half-unwrapped, the young guy working on them pausing mid-motion. For a second, he doesn’t even acknowledge you. His eyes stay lowered, focused on his hands—

Then he looks up.

Your eyes meet, just briefly. Long enough for something to register—sharp, assessing. His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, before his expression tightens slightly, like he’s already decided you don’t belong here.

“And what are you doing here?” the blonde man asks, voice flat, almost tired, like this is an inconvenience.

El hovers just behind your shoulder, peeking in, her eyes going wide the second they land on JK. “Fuck,” she whispers, not nearly as quiet as she probably thinks.

You don’t react to her.

Your attention is locked on Mario now. “I should be asking you that.”

He winces slightly, like he expected that, but still doesn’t have a good answer.

The men in the room don’t miss the tension, the way your eyes narrow, the way Mario shifts under it. Something clicks between them, unspoken.

The blonde man exhales sharply, already over it. “Listen, you have no place being here.” His gaze flicks to Mario. “Take your bitches out of here.”

“Excuse me?” you scoff immediately, offense flaring hot and fast. The word hits wrong—too casual, too familiar, like it’s something he says often.

He doesn’t even react. If anything, he looks bored, like he’s seen this exact reaction a hundred times before.

Maybe he has.

“Look, just—give us a minute,” Mario cuts in quickly, stepping forward like he’s trying to manage damage control. “I’ll come out and explain, okay?”

“And wait out there? With all the junkies?” you shoot back, anger creeping in sharper now. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Your patience is gone.

Before Mario can respond, movement pulls your attention again.

JK stands.

The shift in the room is subtle, but it’s there. He rolls his shoulders once, flexing his hands slightly as the young guy quickly gathers the bloodied wraps and cotton, tossing them aside.

“Take this outside,” JK says, voice low and steady, carrying easily through the room.

It’s not loud, but it doesn’t need to be. It lands heavy anyway.

He doesn’t look at anyone again.

Just walks past, disappearing through another door without a second thought.

Silence lingers for a second after he’s gone.

Then the blonde man steps forward slightly, already done with this entire situation. “I’ll be in touch,” he says curtly, though it’s clearly meant for Mario. His gaze flicks back to you and El, sharp, unimpressed. “Out.”

He gestures toward the door, not even pretending to be polite about it.

It’s not an offer.

It’s an order.

You let out a sharp scoff, already drawing breath to snap back at the blonde man—because who the hell does he think he is—but El is faster. Her hand wraps around your wrist, fingers tightening in warning, and at the same time Mario steps in, grabbing your shoulders and steering you back.

“Hey—” you start, but he’s already pushing you out.

The door shuts behind you with a dull thud.

You turn on him immediately.

“What the actual fuck, Mario?”

He exhales, dragging a hand over his face. “Not here.”

“Oh, not—” you scoff, ready to go off, but he’s already moving, heading down the hall like he expects you to follow.

You do. Of course you do.

El stays close, unusually quiet now, her earlier excitement completely gone. The hallway feels different on the way back—emptier, colder somehow. By the time you reach the main area, it’s almost unrecognizable. The crowd is gone, replaced by only a few people cleaning up like nothing ever happened. Trash is being swept, bottles collected, and in one corner, you catch a glimpse of a stack of cash being counted and shoved into a duffle bag.

That’s enough.

You don’t say anything as you follow Mario out, but the second the cold air hits your skin, it’s like everything snaps back into focus. You step forward quickly, grabbing his forearm and forcing him to stop.

“Speak,” you demand.

He looks at you—not angry, not defensive. Just… tired. Defeated, almost.

“Not here, please,” he says quietly. “Let’s just go back to my place.”

Your eyes narrow immediately. The way he glances around, quick and subtle, doesn’t help.

Alarms go off in your head.

You don’t agree, not really—but you don’t argue either. Not yet.

The car ride is silent. Tense. The kind of silence that presses in on you, heavy with everything that hasn’t been said. El sits beside you, staring out the window, unusually still, like she’s replaying everything in her head. You don’t interrupt. You’re doing the same.

By the time you reach Mario’s building, the quiet hasn’t lifted.

It follows you all the way into his apartment.

The door closes behind you, and just like that, the outside world is gone—but the tension stays, thick in the air, waiting.

Mario moves first, like he needs something to do with his hands. “Tea? Or—something?” he offers, already heading toward the kitchen.

Anything to stall.

You don’t answer right away. You just watch him, arms crossed, expression unmoving. Eventually, you nod once, more out of impatience than acceptance, and take a seat on the couch beside El. She sinks into it quietly, still not saying much, her usual energy replaced with something more withdrawn.

Mario brings the cups over a few minutes later, setting them down carefully in front of you both. You don’t thank him. You don’t even look at the tea.

You just look at him.

He takes the chair opposite you, exhaling slowly before running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think it would escalate like that.”

You cut him off immediately. “What did you think, Mario? That we’d just be okay watching that?” Your voice sharpens. “Did you genuinely think we’d enjoy an illegal fight?”

He blinks, caught off guard for a second. “How do you even know it’s illegal?”

You stare at him, almost incredulous. “Are you serious? Nothing about that place screams legal.”

He doesn’t argue.

So you keep going.

“I thought we were going to a club,” you say, your frustration spilling over now. “And then you change plans last minute, and suddenly we’re standing next to a cage, watching a guy get nearly beaten to death?”

The words hang heavy between you.

Mario exhales again, slower this time, and there’s something in his expression that finally cracks—guilt, maybe. Regret.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “I really am. I just… I had to deal with something, and one of my friends was there. I thought it’d just be a fight. I thought you two might—” he hesitates, then shrugs weakly, “—I don’t know. Enjoy it. You like boxing, right?”

That lands badly.

Because whatever that was—wasn’t just boxing.

You lean back slightly, exhaling through your nose, but the tension doesn’t leave your body. If anything, it settles deeper.

“Why do you even hang around people like that?” you ask, your tone quieter now but no less pointed.

Mario winces a little at that, like he expected it. “I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I really am. I won’t bring you there again. Hell, I probably won’t even go back myself. It was a stupid idea.”

You study him for a second, trying to decide if you believe that.

Then you sigh, some of the edge in you softening, just a little. “I didn’t feel safe there,” you admit. “And it’s a good thing nothing happened to us.”

Your fingers curl slightly around the warm cup, grounding yourself before you add, “What even is that place?”

Mario hesitates, like he’s choosing how honest to be. “It’s… yeah, it’s illegal,” he finally says. “But it’s one of the fastest ways to make money. People go there to bet. Not just that—they go because they like the fights. They want to see something real.”

You let out a quiet scoff. “We clearly have very different ideas of what a good fight is.”

He nods, accepting that. “Listen—it’s usually not like that. It gets stopped before it goes too far. Yeah, some guys don’t look great after, but tonight… tonight was intense. I didn’t know JK was gonna be the one fighting. Usually it’s more… controlled.”

You blink at him, stunned. “Oh my god. How many times have you been there?”

“Not that many,” he says quickly, holding up a hand. “Seriously. But I know it’s not usually like this. There had to be a change of plans when JK showed up. That’s why it was so packed. I should’ve known. I should’ve just left with you the second I realized.”

You shake your head slightly, still trying to process. “Who even is he?”

Mario shrugs. “Just a guy that got popular there. He fights well—really well—and people like watching him. That’s why it gets so crowded when he’s around.”

Your stomach turns at that. “People enjoy watching him beat someone nearly to death?”

“There’s a lot of money involved,” Mario replies, his tone quieter now. “And for some of those guys… it’s easier to earn money that way. One good fight can get you more than a regular job.”

You frown, not convinced. “I don’t get it. I mean, boxing isn’t a bad thing—but when it’s legal. What we saw? There’s a reason that’s not allowed.”

Mario exhales, leaning back in his chair. “The world’s a lot rougher than you think. That place—it’s just one of those corners where people make money however they can.”

You don’t respond to that. Not really.

Instead, you shift your focus, needing something else. “Did you at least deal with your friend? The one you said you had to meet?”

“Yeah,” he nods quickly. “Yeah, that’s done.” He pauses, then adds again, “And I’m sorry. Really. I won’t drag you into something like that again.”

You study him for a moment, then let out a small breath, deciding not to push it further. “Let’s just… hope we’ll laugh about this in twenty years.”

El makes a small sound beside you—half a scoff, half a sip of her tea—and you glance at her.

“Why are you so quiet?” you ask.

She shrugs, staring into her cup for a second before looking up. “I mean… yeah, it was weird. And I definitely wouldn’t go there alone.” She pauses, then adds, almost reluctantly, “But it was kind of interesting to see.”

You drop your head back slightly. “Oh my god.”

El rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile there now. “I’m not saying I want to go back. I don’t. I’d rather we stay far away from that place.” She nudges your arm lightly. “Next time, though? We’re going to an actual club. A good one. We finally convince you to go out, and this is where we end up?”

You huff out a laugh despite yourself, some of the tension finally easing. “Fine. You pick the next place, and I’ll consider going.”

“That’s a yes,” she says immediately.

“It’s a maybe,” you correct, but you’re smiling now.

The night winds down after that, the heaviness of it lingering but not as sharp. You stay over at Mario’s place like usual—nothing new there. You and El take the bed, while he crashes on the couch without complaint.

It should feel normal.

Familiar.

But as you lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, sleep doesn’t come easily.

Because every time you close your eyes, you see it again.

The ring. The blood. The crowd.

And him.

Those dark, steady eyes that barely looked at you—yet somehow linger anyway, slipping into your dreams as the night stretches on, replaying everything like a broken movie you can’t quite turn off.

Life moves on.

Or at least, it pretends to.

In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.

And for a while, neither does that night.

It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.

Still, sometimes it creeps in.

A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?

You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.

The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.

But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.

It becomes just a faint memory.

Something that happened.

Something you don’t talk about.

Life moves on. Or at least, it tries to.

In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.

And for a while, neither does that night.

It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.

Still, sometimes it creeps in. A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?

You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.

The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.

But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.

It becomes just a faint memory. Something that happened. Something you don’t talk about.

Lately, you’ve been seeing El more often. Mario’s been busy, which isn’t unusual. He’s always had something going on, mostly revolving around cars. Buying them, fixing them, flipping them. Old ones, newer ones—it doesn’t really matter. He calls it an investment, says the money always comes back if you know what you’re doing.

And apparently, he does.

Between the cars and whatever connections he’s built over time, he’s become the guy people call when something breaks. You’ve done it yourself. The last time your car had an issue, he fixed it in a day and saved you from dealing with overpriced repair shops and all their nonsense. He’s reliable like that.

Just not always honest.

Tonight, it’s just you and El at one of your usual bars, tucked into a booth that’s a little too worn but familiar enough to feel comfortable. You didn’t feel like drinking, so you’ve been sticking to soda while she’s had a couple of shots.

It reminds you of a phase you’ve already gone through—back when you were younger, figuring out your limits. These days, you don’t really care for it.

El, though, seems off.

At first, you assume it’s her ex. She spent way too long getting over him, and for a moment you wonder if she slipped back into that. But then she checks her phone again. And again. And again.

You watch her for a while before finally speaking up. “Okay, something’s up.”

She barely looks at you. “Nothing’s up.”

“You’ve checked your phone like ten times in five minutes.”

“I’m just waiting for a message.”

“From who?”

She shrugs too quickly. “No one important.”

You don’t buy it, but you don’t push right away. The feeling lingers, though, settling in your chest.

Something’s not right.

By the time the waitress tells you they’re closing, it’s already close to ten. You both gather your things and step outside, the cooler air a relief after the stuffy bar. You start telling her something about work—some pointless drama—but she barely reacts, her attention drifting back to her phone.

Then she checks it again.

You stop mid-sentence and look at her. “Okay, you have one minute. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m dropping you off and going home.”

She laughs nervously, scratching her cheek. “Don’t be mad.”

You roll your eyes. “Just say it.”

“I know where Mario is.”

You blink. “Okay? He’s probably working.”

She exhales, muttering, “He’s gonna kill me for this.”

“El.”

“Okay—he went back there.”

You frown. “Back where?”

Her voice lowers. “The ring.”

You stare at her, still trying to process it, the memory of that place snapping back into focus like it never really left.

“What do you mean, the ring?”

“He’s there. Right now.”

You let out a slow breath, disbelief settling in. Of course he is. After everything he said. After promising he wouldn’t go back.

“Unbelievable.”

El shifts slightly, her grip tightening around her phone. “The thing is… he was supposed to text me. And he hasn’t. It’s been, like, four hours.” She glances at the screen again, like it might suddenly light up. “He promised he would.”

You frown. “Wait—did you know he was going there?”

She hesitates, then nods, a little ashamed. “Yeah. He told me.” She quickly adds, “And he made me promise not to tell you.”

You scoff. “Of course he did. He didn’t want to hear my ‘smart remarks’ again. He probably thinks I’m his mom at this point, pestering him.”

“That’s not it,” El says, shaking her head. “He knows you worry about him. We both do. And honestly? You have a reason to.” She exhales, then continues, “I only agreed because he said he’d text me the whole time. Just so I’d know he’s okay.”

You cross your arms. “And?”

“The last message I got was around seven,” she says, her voice tightening. “He said he was going in.”

You glance at the time. It’s way past that now.

“What was he even doing there?” you ask.

El shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. He just said he had some business to take care of. That it’d be quick.” She lets out a quiet, uneasy breath. “Clearly it’s not.”

Silence settles between you for a moment, heavier this time.

“I don’t want to panic,” she adds, her voice quieter now, “but after what we saw there… the kind of people that were around…” She swallows. “I’m scared something happened to him.”

That lands.

Because yeah—Mario’s not small. He’s got height, some lean muscle, enough to handle himself in most situations.

But that place?

That’s not most situations.

He’s still your friend.

And something about all of this doesn’t sit right.

El looks at you, worry written all over her face. “What are we gonna do?”

You sigh, already knowing the answer.

“What else?” you mutter. “We have to go back and find him.”

Her expression tightens. “What if he’s not there?”

“Then we hope he made it there and someone saw him,” you reply, already turning and heading toward your car. “And we figure it out from there.”

You don’t give yourself time to second-guess it.

El hurries after you, sliding into the passenger seat as you start the engine. For a brief second, you just sit there, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than usual.

You had hoped you’d never go back.

But just like that—that hope is gone.

You park a little further down the street, not wanting to pull up right in front like last time. The engine dies, and for a moment neither of you moves. The place hasn’t changed at all. The street still feels wrong—too quiet, too empty, like it’s been deliberately erased from everything around it. You glance at El, and she looks just as uneasy as you feel.

“Let’s go,” you mutter, pushing the door open.

You both walk toward the entrance, slower this time, more cautious. When you reach the door, El tries to push it open, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. She turns to you, brows knitting together. “What now?”

Before you can answer, the door creaks open from the inside. The same bouncer steps into view, and for a second you don’t recognize him. Then it clicks—the same sharp, heavy-lidded eyes, the same detached, almost stoned expression. It feels like no time has passed. His gaze drags over both of you, slow and deliberate, lingering a little too long on your bare legs, and you instantly regret dressing up for the bar tonight.

“You’re late,” he says, voice rough. “Let people in an hour ago.”

You don’t bother arguing. You reach into your purse, pull out a bill, and press it against his chest. He catches it easily, glancing down before tucking it away. A smirk pulls at his mouth. “Would’ve preferred you in my arms,” he mutters. You grimace, not even hiding your disgust this time, while El’s grip tightens around your hand as the door opens wider and you both slip inside.

The moment you step down the stairs, the noise hits—loud, heavy, suffocating. The smell follows right after. Sweat, weed, alcohol. It’s exactly how you remember it, maybe worse. The main area is completely packed, even more than last time, bodies pressed together so tightly it feels impossible to move. You barely even glance toward the ring. That’s not why you’re here.

“Room,” you remind El, leaning closer so she can hear you.

She nods quickly, already following your lead as you both start pushing through the crowd, weaving between people with purpose. You keep your focus forward, mentally retracing the path from last time. The stairs. The hallway. That door. That’s where you last saw Mario, and right now, that’s the only place that matters.

“El—this way,” you say, tugging her slightly as you manage to break away from the tightest part of the crowd and angle toward the stairs. There are still people gathered there, but it’s easier to move, easier to breathe. “We check the room first. If he’s not there, we’ll figure something else out.”

The microphone cuts in, sharp and loud, but you don’t stop. The announcer’s voice blends into the background as you keep moving, slipping past another group, already stepping toward the hallway. You’re close now, close enough that you can almost see the door in your mind.

“…and tonight,” the voice drawls.

You ignore it.

“First time in the ring—”

Still moving.

“—and bold enough to throw down a challenge—”

You’re already turning, already heading for the hallway.

“—challenging JK himself—”

The crowd reacts loudly, but it barely registers. You’re focused on getting there, on finding him before anything else can go wrong.

“And let’s hear it for—”

You don’t slow down.

“Maaaario.”

El stops so abruptly it almost throws you into her back, your steps catching at the last second as the name echoes through the space. For a moment it doesn’t register—not fully. It stretches out in the air, swallowed and amplified by the crowd’s reaction, like your brain refuses to connect it to anything real.

Then it hits.

Your body goes still as your mind catches up, the realization crashing in all at once. Around you, the crowd erupts, louder than before, excitement surging like this is exactly what they came for. El doesn’t move in front of you, her posture rigid, and your hand tightens slightly where you’re still holding onto her.

Neither of you says anything.

Because you both heard it.

And suddenly, finding Mario doesn’t feel like a question anymore.

It feels like a problem.

The countdown starts somewhere above the noise, the announcer stretching each number out like he’s feeding the crowd. It barely registers at first, your mind still stuck on the name you just heard, but then the final number hits and everything erupts at once. Before you can even think, the fight begins.

You and El move at the same time without saying a word. There’s no hesitation now, just urgency as you push into the crowd, forcing your way through bodies that don’t want to move. Shoulders slam into you, someone curses, another shoves you aside, but no one really stops you. They’re too focused on the ring, too caught up in the fight to care about anything else. The noise is overwhelming—yells, cheers, fists hitting metal—and it makes your chest tighten because you can’t see anything. Not knowing what’s happening somehow feels worse than seeing it.

El takes the lead, using her strength to pry a path open, her grip tight around your wrist as she drags you forward. You stumble after her, trying to keep up as she forces space where there isn’t any. It feels endless, like you’re stuck in a wall of bodies that won’t break, but eventually it does. You reach the ring, not close enough to touch it comfortably, but close enough to see.

And what you see makes your breath catch.

Mario is on the ground, one hand pressed to his face as blood spills from his nose. He looks disoriented, struggling to steady himself, and for a second it doesn’t even register as a fight. It looks like damage, like something that’s already gone too far. Your fingers slip through the fence without you thinking, gripping the cold metal as your eyes dart to his opponent.

JK is circling him.

Not rushing, not pressing—just waiting. There’s something unsettling about the way he moves, controlled and calm, like he already knows exactly how this ends. He lets Mario struggle, lets him try to get up, almost like he’s giving him space on purpose. Like he’s drawing it out.

Your stomach twists as you try to make sense of it. Can’t he just stop it? Can Mario tap out? Are there even rules here?

You don’t know.

“Oh my god,” El whispers beside you, her voice tight with fear.

“Come on,” you say under your breath, gripping the fence harder. “Get up. Get up.”

There’s no way he can hear you through the chaos, and yet somehow he moves. Mario pushes himself up, unsteady, barely holding his balance as he spits blood onto the ground. The sight makes your stomach churn, but he lifts his hands again, trying to reset, trying to fight.

He throws the first punch, driven more by instinct than skill. It’s messy, desperate, lacking control, but it’s something. JK avoids it easily, shifting just enough for it to miss. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK moves around him like it’s nothing. There’s no panic in him, no rush. Just patience.

Then he strikes.

It’s quick. Sharp. Clean.

The first hit snaps Mario’s head to the side, the second lands before he can recover, and the third sends him stumbling backward. JK doesn’t overextend, doesn’t waste movement—every punch is calculated, deliberate, landing exactly where it needs to. Mario tries to hold his ground, but it’s obvious now. He’s outmatched.

One more hit lands, harder than the rest, and it drops him.

You gasp, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it as Mario hits the ground again. His face is already swelling, one eye starting to close, blood spreading across his skin in a way that makes your chest tighten painfully.

“Mario!” you shout, panic rising fast. “Get up!”

El is yelling too now, her voice breaking as she calls his name, the two of you pressed against the fence, desperate, urging him to move, to stay conscious, to do anything. The fear settles deep in your chest because what if he doesn’t get up this time? What if this doesn’t stop?

Mario shifts slightly, barely lifting his head, and then his gaze turns. Not toward JK, not toward the crowd—but toward you.

People cheer.

The sight of his face makes something in you twist. Swollen, bloodied, barely recognizable, and still he finds you in the chaos. Your breath hitches as you realize he sees you here.

JK notices.

It’s subtle at first, just a shift in his focus, the way his eyes narrow as he follows Mario’s line of sight. And then he looks at you. Really looks, his gaze locking onto yours in a way that feels too direct, too aware.

For a second, everything feels still.

Then he moves.

He crouches beside Mario, and your stomach drops as his hand shoots out, fingers tangling into Mario’s hair. The grip is tight, controlling, forcing his head up despite the lack of resistance. Mario barely reacts, his body too weak to fight back, and panic spikes in your chest.

JK doesn’t look away from you. His dark hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin barely marked compared to Mario’s. Like this fight hasn’t cost him anything.

And then he smirks.

Your chest tightens as his grip tightens with it, lifting Mario’s head just enough—

Before slamming it back down against the ground.

The sound is sickening.

It cuts through everything.

Mario goes limp.

And for a second, you don’t breathe, don’t move, don’t think. You just stare, because something in you knows that whatever line there was before, it’s gone now.

The sound crashes back all at once, loud and overwhelming, like nothing just happened. Like what you just saw is entertainment, nothing more. JK steps back, the win clearly his, and the fence is already being opened for him as if it was expected. Of course it was. He walks out without a glance back, already moving on while the crowd feeds off the aftermath.

You don’t.

You can’t.

Two men enter the ring almost immediately, grabbing Mario under his arms and hauling him up. His body hangs between them, limp, unresponsive, his head lolling slightly with the movement. The sight knocks the air out of your lungs.

You force yourself to move.

Your throat tightens as you swallow hard, shaking yourself out of the daze as you grab El’s arm. “Come on,” you manage, your voice barely steady, your eyes locked on Mario as they carry him away.

You follow them.

They move fast, cutting through a path that clears easier for them than it ever did for you. When you and El catch up, one of the men glances back, clearly annoyed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes you in. El’s panicked whispers don’t help.

“Oh my god… Mario, we’re here. You’re gonna be okay—”

“Hey,” one of the men snaps. “You can’t—”

“He’s our friend,” you cut in quickly, your voice sharper than you expect. “We’re staying. Where are you taking him?”

They don’t look like they want to deal with you. Not now. Not with this. The two of them exchange a look, something silent passing between them before one sighs, clearly deciding it’s not worth the argument.

“He’s getting treated,” he says shortly, already turning away.

You don’t ask by whom. You just follow.

The hallway feels tighter this time, the noise from the main area fading behind you as they lead you into one of the rooms. It’s smaller than you expected, cramped and worn, with dented lockers lining one wall and a narrow bed in the center that looks like it once belonged in a hospital.

They set Mario down without much care. His body barely reacts, his head rolling slightly to the side, and something in your chest twists painfully at how still he is.

You and El move immediately, stopping just short of touching him, both of you hovering, afraid of making it worse.

The door opens again.

A young man steps in, probably in his early twenties, maybe a bit older, his build lean but steady. He’s dressed simply—dark shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows—and there’s a certain efficiency in the way he moves, like he’s done this too many times to think about it. His hair is slightly messy, falling into his eyes as he pulls on a pair of gloves, his expression focused rather than concerned.

“What do we have this time?” he asks, glancing over Mario with quick, practiced eyes.

“Probably a broken nose. Maybe more,” one of the men replies.

The young man exhales quietly, stepping closer to the bed as he tilts Mario’s head slightly, inspecting the damage without hesitation. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Another one who thought he could last longer than he actually could.”

Mario gets treated like you and El aren’t even there.

The young man moves around him with quiet efficiency, cleaning the blood, checking his nose, pressing gauze where it’s needed. The two men who carried him in linger for a moment before stepping aside, talking in low voices, completely unfazed. It’s like this is routine. Like people getting carried in half-conscious isn’t anything out of the ordinary.

You can’t stand still.

You start pacing the small room, your steps short and sharp, your arms crossed tight over your chest as your thoughts spiral. No matter how hard you try to focus on Mario, your mind keeps dragging you back to the ring—to that moment. The way JK looked at you. The way he made sure you saw it. That last hit.

The way Mario just… stopped.

Your jaw tightens.

Even when Mario lets out a low groan, shifting slightly on the bed, it doesn’t pull you out of it. El is at his side immediately, her voice soft but urgent as she leans closer. “Mario? Hey—can you hear me?” He mumbles something incoherent, his words slurred, barely forming, and El glances up, worry etched all over her face. “Doesn’t he need a hospital?”

The young man doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. “If he goes to a hospital, questions get asked,” he says flatly. “Police get involved.”

“Maybe they should,” you cut in sharply, stopping your pacing to look at him. “Maybe that would finally shut this place down.”

That gets his attention.

He shoots you a look, sharp and unimpressed. “Hate to break it to you,” he says, tone edged with something colder now, “but your friend would be the one in trouble. This is illegal. He signed up for it.”

You don’t care.

You don’t care what he says, what excuses they have, what twisted logic they follow in this place.

Your anger is already too far gone.

“Where is he?” you ask suddenly.

The room stills for a second.

“Who?” one of the men asks.

You look at him like it should be obvious. “JK.”

They exchange a glance, something unreadable passing between them. “Why?” the other one mutters.

You don’t answer that.

You just look at El. “Stay here. Keep an eye on him.”

She blinks at you, clearly trying to figure out what you’re about to do. “Wait—”

But you’re already moving.

You leave before she can stop you, before anyone can question you further, your steps quick and determined as you head back down the hall. You don’t even know if he’s still there, if he went back to that room or somewhere else entirely, but you don’t stop to think about it.

You’re too angry to think.

You reach the door and push it open hard.

Empty.

The room looks exactly the same as before—the couch, the chair, the faint trace of something cleaner in the air compared to the rest of the place—but he’s not there. You step further in, scanning it anyway, like he might suddenly appear.

“Where the hell—”

The door opens behind you.

You turn immediately.

JK stands there.

He doesn’t look surprised to see someone in the room. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed, like you’re an inconvenience he didn’t feel like dealing with tonight. His hair is wet, strands sticking to his forehead, steam still curling faintly from the doorway behind him—bathroom, you realize. He’s changed, now wearing a pair of dark cotton shorts, a towel in his hands that he uses once before tossing it aside onto the couch like it doesn’t matter.

Like nothing matters.

He doesn’t even acknowledge you.

That’s what sets you off.

Before you can think, you’re already moving toward him, anger taking over completely as you shove both hands against his chest. The contact is solid—his skin still warm from the shower, heat lingering under your palms, his muscles hard and unyielding beneath your push. It’s like trying to move a wall.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snap, your voice sharp with fury. “You could’ve killed him!”

He barely moves.

Not even a step back.

Just stands there, looking down at you as if you’re something mildly irritating, one brow lifting slightly as your hair falls out of place from the force of your movement.

“You done?” he asks.

The words hit harder than they should.

You freeze for half a second, caught off guard—not just by how close he is, not just by hearing his voice directed at you for the first time, but by how little he seems to care.

“Not entirely,” you snap back, your anger flaring again as you move to shove him once more.

This time, he catches your wrist.

Effortlessly.

His grip is firm, stopping you mid-motion like it’s nothing, like you weren’t even a challenge to begin with.

“You’re a piece of shit,” you tell him, your voice tight.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, slow and unimpressed. “And yet,” he replies coolly, tilting his head slightly as his grip doesn’t loosen, “your friend stepped into the ring with me anyway.”

“Let me go,” you snap, yanking against him.

For a second, he just watches you, completely unimpressed, like this is nothing new to him.

Then he lets go.

Abruptly.

You stumble back a step as he pushes you away, not rough enough to hurt, but enough to put distance between you, like he’s brushing something off.

“Careful,” he says, voice low, almost amused, “you’re gonna hurt yourself before you even get close to hurting me.”

The arrogance in his tone only makes your blood boil more.

“You’re an arrogant prick,” you snap without hesitation, your voice sharp enough to cut through whatever calm he’s pretending to have. “Do you feel good about it? Almost killing people for a bunch of money?”

Something shifts.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. The smirk fades just enough, his eyes darkening as he looks at you, really looks this time.

“Out,” he says.

You don’t move.

You don’t even consider it.

“You’re in no position to tell me what to do,” you fire back immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t justify himself.

That only makes it worse.

You step closer again, closing the distance, your finger lifting as you point it toward his chest. “You don’t get to act like this is normal. Like you’re not the problem here.”

His hand moves before you can react.

Fast.

Your wrist is caught again, but this time there’s no patience behind it. No casual ease. Just control.

“You’re pushing it,” he says, voice low, edged with warning.

“Good,” you snap, trying to yank your hand free. “Maybe someone should—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

In one swift movement, he turns you, your back hitting the wall with a dull thud before you can process what just happened. Your breath catches as he pins your arms behind you, one hand locking both of your wrists in place, the other braced near your shoulder, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

The shift is instant.

You’re not in control anymore.

Your heart jumps, adrenaline spiking as you struggle against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s stronger, faster, and far too used to this kind of contact.

He leans in slightly, just enough for you to feel the heat still radiating off his skin.

“You talk a lot,” he mutters, his grip tightening just enough to keep you from trying anything else, “for someone who has no idea what she just walked into.”

His hand still holds your wrists behind your back, and now his other arm shifts slightly, boxing you in. The heat from his body hasn’t faded yet, his skin still warm under the dim light, his breath just brushing near your ear without quite touching.

Your pulse spikes despite yourself.

“Yeah?” you manage, your voice tighter than you’d like. “What did I walk into?”

There’s a beat.

Short.

Deliberate.

Then—

“A place you don’t belong,” he says quietly, voice low and steady, right by your ear.

No hesitation. No explanation.

Just fact.

His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you he’s still in control.

“And a fight you can’t win.”

He lets go of you.

The shift is sudden enough that you almost stumble forward before catching yourself. You turn on him immediately, your chest rising and falling too fast, your pulse still racing from the proximity, from the grip, from everything. For a second, you just stare at him, trying to steady yourself, trying to hold onto the anger that brought you here in the first place.

“Leave,” he says.

Just like that. Flat. Dismissive.

You blink at him, still catching your breath. You don’t even know what you expected coming here—an apology, a reaction, something—but all you got was this. Him. Unbothered. Untouched. Like what happened in that ring meant nothing.

You open your mouth, but before you can say anything—

The door swings open.

A blonde woman steps in, her energy shifting the moment she notices you. The grin she walked in with disappears almost instantly, her eyes flicking between you and him, lingering a second too long on the fact that he’s still shirtless.

The air changes.

“Who’s this?” she asks, her tone edged, curious but already leaning toward annoyed.

Jungkook doesn’t rush to answer. He doesn’t even look at her right away. Instead, he grabs an oversized shirt, pulling it over his head like this conversation doesn’t concern him in the slightest.

“She’s leaving,” he says, like that’s enough.

You let out a sharp scoff. “The hell I am.”

That gets a reaction.

Not from her.

From him.

It’s subtle—just the corner of his mouth pulling into something that almost resembles a grin, like he finds you more entertaining than anything else. It’s not warm. Not kind.

Provocative.

The blonde woman shifts her weight, clearly irritated now, her gaze narrowing slightly as she looks at you again. “I think you heard him.”

You don’t move.

Not an inch.

“I heard him,” you reply coolly. “I just don’t care.”

Her annoyance sharpens, visible now, but Jungkook doesn’t step in. Doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t repeat himself. If anything, he looks more interested now, watching the tension build like it’s something worth his time.

The woman steps further into the room, and now that you actually look at her, it’s obvious. The red dress clings to her body, cut far too short to be anything but intentional, the fabric hugging her curves like she walked in here knowing exactly what she came for.

Not the fight.

Him.

You almost snort at the realization.

She barely spares you another glance before her attention shifts fully to Jungkook, like you’ve already been dismissed. “You were incredible tonight,” she says, her tone smoothing out into something softer, almost impressed. “I was here. Watched the whole thing.”

Jungkook doesn’t react the way she expects.

He doesn’t even look at her.

“Good,” he says simply, already reaching for a bag that looks like his, slinging it over his shoulder like the conversation means nothing.

The woman doesn’t seem discouraged.

If anything, she leans into it.

She steps closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like she’s used to getting attention this way. And maybe she is. But this time, there’s something else in it too—something sharper. When she shifts closer to him, her gaze flicks to you for just a second.

Oh.

There it is.

She sees you as a problem.

A threat.

The realization makes something in you click—and instead of being bothered, you grin.

Actually grin.

You shake your head lightly, almost amused now as you look between them. 

Her hand brushes lightly against his arm, her voice dropping as she says something under her breath, something meant just for him.

JK finally looks at her.

Not interested. Not even tempted.

“Not tonight,” he says flatly, pulling his arm away without hesitation. There’s no softness in it, no apology. Just a quiet finality that lands harder than anything else.

It’s enough.

Her expression tightens, the confidence slipping just slightly as she straightens, clearly not satisfied with the answer. For a second, it looks like she might push it, but she doesn’t. Instead, she exhales sharply, shooting you one last look before turning on her heel and walking out.

The door closes behind her.

Silence settles for a beat.

Then his attention shifts.

Back to you.

And this time, there’s no amusement left in it.

Just irritation.

“You’re still here,” he says, like it’s a problem that hasn’t fixed itself yet.

You let out a sharp breath, disbelief mixing with the anger that never really left.

“I can’t believe you,” you say, your voice tight, almost shaking. “You just walk out of there like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t even happen.”

He doesn’t respond.

That only makes it worse.

“Mario is in there,” you continue, stepping closer again, your frustration building all over again. “Barely conscious, coming in and out of it—and you’re just… here. Moving on. Like this is normal.”

Your eyes flick briefly to the door, then back to him.

“And what, now it’s back to this?” you add, your tone sharper. “Girls lining up because you won? Like that’s all this is to you?”

His expression barely shifts.

If anything, it hardens.

He doesn’t react the way you expect.

No apology. No defense.

Instead, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a thick fold of cash, and before you can even register it, he grabs your hand and forces it open, pressing the money into your palm.

“Enough?” he asks, tone flat. “Or you gonna keep talking?”

You stare down at it for half a second, disbelief hitting first, then anger flooding right after.

You’re about to throw it straight back at him—

But he speaks again.

“Give it to him,” he adds, nodding slightly toward the door. “Call it… a consolation prize.”

There’s a pause, just enough for it to land.

Then, quieter, with that same careless edge, “For getting dropped that fast.”

Your fingers tighten around the money without you meaning to, your jaw clenching as the insult settles heavy in the air.

Before you can react—

He moves.

It’s quick. Too quick.

His hand comes up, and his thumb brushes over the corner of your lips, slow enough to feel deliberate, wiping at something you didn’t even realize was there. The touch is brief, but it lands heavier than it should, heat lingering where his skin just was.

You freeze.

Not because you want to.

Because you didn’t expect it.

He pulls his hand back, glancing at his thumb like he’s checking the faint smear of red before letting out a quiet, almost amused breath.

“Fix yourself,” he says, voice low, edged with something mocking. “Wouldn’t want you going back to your guy looking like that.”

His eyes flick back up to yours, that same faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Lipstick’s smudged, Red.”

And just like that, he’s done. He grabs his bag, throws it over his shoulder, and walks past you without another glance, like the conversation never mattered to him in the first place, like you never mattered enough to leave an impression. The bag shifts as he moves, heavy, the faint rustle unmistakable—you don’t even need to look twice to know it’s stuffed with cash. Easy money. Hard-earned in all the wrong ways. He carries it like it’s nothing.

The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, and the shift is immediate—the room falling into a stillness that feels almost unnatural after everything that just happened.

The silence presses in, heavy and unfamiliar. The faint trace of his cologne lingers in the air—something sharp, clean, expensive—cutting through the stale mix of sweat and smoke that clings to everything else in this place. It doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t fit the cracked walls, the worn furniture, the quiet evidence of violence that lingers in every corner. And somehow, neither does he, even though he clearly owns it.

You don’t move right away. Your hand is still loosely curled around the cash he forced into your palm, your other lifting without you realizing it, fingers hovering near your lips where his thumb had brushed just moments ago. The sensation is gone, but not really. It lingers in your head, in the way your body reacts before your mind can catch up, and that alone is enough to make your jaw tighten.

Your heartbeat hasn’t slowed. If anything, it’s worse now—faster than it was before you even walked in here, louder in your ears, harder to ignore. You swallow, forcing your hand to drop, grounding yourself, dragging your focus back to something real. Back to why you came here in the first place.

Because whatever that was, whatever just passed between you and him, it doesn’t matter.

Mario is still down the hall, hurt, barely conscious, and this place hasn’t changed just because you stepped into one room and out of another. It’s still exactly what you thought it was—a place where violence is entertainment, where people walk in and don’t always walk out the same, and where no one stops to care what happens once the fight is over.