The crowd pulsed like a living animal — loud, hungry, and always looking for something to break.
Concrete walls soaked in old sweat and cigarette smoke. The air was heavy with bets and breathless cheers. Half of them were already drunk. The other half were waiting to see blood.
Haru stood near the back of the warehouse, hood up, face half-lit by the flickering bulbs overhead. He didn't speak. Didn't move. Didn't need to.
He was only here for one thing.
Her.
They didn't know her real name here.
They knew only Ash.
That was the name they chanted when she stepped through the caged gate at the far end of the ring.A black hoodie, torn gloves, taped knuckles. Chin up. Expression blank.
But Haru saw everything.
Her eyes scanned the crowd, not looking for him — just searching for threats. Her shoulders were tense but controlled, spine straight, steps calculated. Not nervous. Not excited.
Ready.
She didn't flinch at the noise.
She didn't even blink.
She walked into the center like she owned the space.
Her opponent was taller. Older. More experienced.
Haru could hear the whispers in the crowd.
"She's gonna get dropped in two rounds.""He's gonna split her lip open.""Poor kid. Too pretty for this kind of fight."
He smiled once, just barely.
Because they didn't know her.
But he did.
And so did the man in the ring — after the first punch landed.
Aara didn't start aggressive.
She waited.
Watched.
Let him lunge.
Let him underestimate.
Then — fast as a snap — she twisted her body to the side, ducked low, and struck.
A brutal elbow to the ribs.A quick uppercut that caught him on the jaw.A sweep that nearly sent him off his feet.
The crowd roared.
Haru didn't make a sound.
By the third minute, the air had changed.
Aara's lip was bleeding. She spat it out and grinned.
Grinned.
Haru's heart clenched. Not in fear — but in a strange, sharp pull of something he couldn't name.
He wasn't just watching her fight.
He was watching her become something else.
Something untouchable.
Something not even he could control.
She won.
Of course she did.
Not clean. Not elegant.
But she dropped the guy to one knee, hand wrapped around his collar, ready to finish it before the referee jumped in and separated them.
Her chest heaved with breath.
Knuckles cut. Blood smeared on her cheek.
And in that moment — sweaty, bruised, brutal — she looked more alive than he'd ever seen her.
When she finally stepped out of the cage and pulled her hoodie over her head, she didn't look toward the back.
But she paused.
Just for a second.
Like maybe she felt him there.
Like maybe she didn't need to see him to know he was watching.
He found her outside, behind the back wall, crouched low with a water bottle pressed to her neck.
She didn't look surprised when he approached.
"You shouldn't be back here," she said quietly.
"I had to see it."
"And?"
He crouched next to her, eyes never leaving her face.
"I thought I was obsessed with you before."
Her breath caught, sharp and shallow.
"You're not scared?"
"I'm terrified."
"Of me?"
He leaned in close, voice low.
"Of how much I want the girl you become when you stop hiding."
She looked at him — really looked.
And maybe something in her cracked.
Because she didn't shove him away.
Didn't tell him to leave.
Didn't try to soften the space between them.
She just exhaled — slow, long, real.
And whispered:
"Then don't make me hide again."
He didn't touch her.
Not yet.
Not until she asked.
But he stayed crouched there beside her like he was ready to guard the weight of every fight she'd ever have to walk into again.