The arena wasn't underground in the traditional sense.
It was worse.
It was hidden in plain sight — beneath a private club, sealed behind biometric locks, flooded with heat and sharp light. The kind of place where money changed hands faster than blood hit the mats.
Everything smelled like sweat and metal and ego.
Aara stood at the edge of the prep room, arms folded, hoodie pulled low over her face.
Vega was already in the ring.Stretching. Calm. Controlled.
Built like a wall — muscle and discipline in equal parts.Gloves on. Ankles taped. Confidence like armor.
And worse?
No smile.
She wasn't here to humiliate Aara.
She was here to disassemble her.
The announcer's voice echoed through the room.
"Wildcard Qualifier Match: Ash versus Vega.Full-contact. No submissions. No throws. No seconds.Knockout or surrender."
No seconds.
That meant no Haru at ringside.
She was truly alone.
At least on paper.
In the far balcony, Haru stood behind tinted glass, expression unreadable.
He wasn't just watching the match.
He was watching every camera. Every exit. Every man in a suit pretending not to be security.
They want to test her.
They want to push her limits.
And if she breaks? They'll profit from the fall.
But Haru wasn't here to scream warnings.
He was here to be the consequence if they touched what was his.
Aara stepped into the ring.
No flash. No theatrics.
Just a stare that didn't waver and a mind locked in like a weapon being aimed.
The bell rang.
And Vega didn't wait.
The first hit was a low kick — sharp, fast, nearly took Aara's footing.
The second was a hook to the ribs.
Solid. Bruising.
The crowd flinched.
Aara didn't.
She adjusted. Calculated.
She wasn't stronger.
Wasn't bigger.
But she was smarter.
She'd spent her life reading people, surviving chaos, outlasting pain.
Vega?Vega was trained to finish fights.
But Aara?
She was trained to take punishment until the other person got cocky.
By the third minute, Vega was smirking.
Aara had taken at least seven body shots.One to the jaw.A glancing cut above her left brow.
And still — she hadn't gone down.
Haru's knuckles tightened against the glass.
She's baiting her.
Then, finally — a mistake.
Vega overreached.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
And Aara moved.
Duck. Pivot. Left jab — not to the jaw, but to the collarbone.Then a palm strike to the nose. Elbow to the ribs.
Not flashy.
Not clean.
But targeted.
Vega stumbled. Just for a second.
But in this world?
A second is war.
Aara followed it up — hit after hit, burning through her pain like it was fuel, not failure.
Then — knee to the gut.Vega collapsed forward.
Aara grabbed her by the back of the neck and whispered so only she could hear:
"This isn't your fight.It's mine."
And then dropped her.
Cold. Calculated.
Just like they taught her to be.
The ref called it.
Not with cheers.
With silence.
Because no one expected it.
They expected blood. Chaos. A desperation match.
What they got?
Was a warning.
Haru didn't smile.
Didn't cheer.
Just watched as Aara walked off the mat like she hadn't just survived a planned execution.
Backstage, she peeled off her gloves and unwrapped her wrists, hands shaking just slightly — not from pain.
From adrenaline.
From knowing she'd stepped into their trap and didn't flinch.
The hallway was empty until Haru found her.
He didn't speak at first.
Just looked at her — the bruises, the blood, the stare that hadn't softened.
Then:
"They'll come harder now."
"I'm counting on it."
"You know what that fight was?"
"An audition," she said.
"No," he said. "A purchase test. They wanted to know if you were worth buying."
She looked up.
Eyes steel.
"Then let's make me too expensive."
He reached out slowly. Brushed a knuckle under her cut brow.
She didn't pull away.
"I should be stopping you," he said.
"You won't."
"No. I won't."
"Why not?"
"Because watching you burn the system down…""…might be the only thing keeping me from burning down with you."
They didn't kiss.
Not here.
Not yet.
But the air between them was heavier than blood.
That night, the match footage went viral on private channels.
Someone looped the final hit over and over.
And someone else sent it to Rae Jin with a simple caption:
"She passed."