The roar of the crowd hit me like a wave the second I stepped through the steel door.
The underground arena hadn't changed—smoke curling under lights, bloodstains on the mat, the stench of sweat and adrenaline in the air. But something felt different tonight.
There was a tension beneath the noise. An energy sharper than usual.
As if the fighters weren't just hungry.
They were hunting.
Ryker didn't say a word when we walked in.
He just gave me a nod and peeled off toward the betting tables.
I stayed near the back, scanning the pit.
Tonight's card was packed—eight fights, four of them already done.
I spotted a familiar shape leaning against the far wall—tall, lean, arms crossed with practiced stillness.
Then the announcer's voice cut through the static:
"Next up in the cage—returning crowd favorite: the Stray Wolf!"
Cheering.
Then a name.
A real one.
"Elian Vale!"
I froze.
Elian.
A senior at Eastwood.
Track team captain. Debate club. Stoic, sharp-eyed, untouchable.
He'd never so much as looked at me at school.
And now he was walking toward the cage like he belonged here.
Wearing finger tape and silence.
His opponent was bigger. Wider. Covered in tattoos and foam-wrapped rage.
Didn't matter.
The fight started fast—and ended faster.
Elian didn't dance.
He dissected.
Every strike was precise. Measured. Low stances. Disguised elbows. Spinning heel kick to the thigh, then a hook to the side of the neck that folded the man before he hit the mat.
The crowd erupted.
But Elian didn't raise his arms.
He didn't smile.
He just watched—cold and calculating—as the medics dragged the man off.
Then he left the cage.
I watched him pass.
He didn't acknowledge me.
Not yet.
But I felt it.
The same thing I saw in the mirror some mornings.
Fire beneath control.
Predator recognizing predator.
Thirty minutes later, it was my turn.
I stepped into the cage without hesitation.
My opponent was shorter—stocky, scarred, a regional kickboxing champ looking for quick cash.
The bell rang.
He charged.
I moved.
Muay Boran wasn't about beauty. It was about violence.
I shattered his rhythm with low kicks to the shin. Caught his jab. Jammed an elbow into his forearm and felt something give.
He grunted. Backed up. Threw a flurry.
I let the first two slide past.
Caught the third.
Used his momentum to drive my knee into his side—hard.
He dropped his guard.
I ended it with a clean upward elbow to the jaw.
He hit the mat. Out cold.
No cheers this time.
Just stunned silence.
Then rising noise.
Another fighter down.
Another name to remember.
When I stepped out of the cage, Elian was waiting near the edge.
Arms folded.
Eyes steady.
"That elbow," he said. "That wasn't street technique."
I shrugged. "It wasn't."
"You study?"
"A little."
He nodded.
"I don't remember seeing you here before."
"Same."
We stood in silence for a moment.
Then he said, "Guess we'll see each other at school."
His voice was calm.
But his eyes?
His eyes said, This isn't over.