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“Nod if you understand.”

The man across from me grinned. “I understand,” he said.

That smile told me everything. He’d done this before.

The bell rang.

He came at me like a missile.

I barely had time to brace before he was on me—fists flying, power and speed married to intent. He wasn’t probing. He wasn’t feeling me out.

He was trying to end it.

I blocked, ducked, took hits I felt down to my bones. My ribs screamed in protest. My lungs burned.

He drove me backward with short, brutal combinations—body, head, body—each strike meant to break structure, not score points. My forearms numbed from absorbing blows, my footing faltered, and I tasted copper as my vision narrowed to nothing but motion and threat. Every instinct screamed to survive, not strategize.

By the time the bell rang again, I was bent over, hands on my knees, breath coming in ragged pulls.

He straightened slowly.

Smiling.

Blood trickled from a split over his eyebrow.

He was hurt.

But he was enjoying it.

The bell rang again.

He launched into a high kick—sloppy. Too high. Left himself wide open.

I could have shattered his knee. Could have ended him.

The crowd sensed it.

When I didn’t take the shot, they booed.

Loudly.

His eyes flashed.

“That was a mistake,” he growled.

He slammed into me, driving me back into the bars. Fists hammered my body. My head snapped back. My ribs flared white-hot.

Then—

Shouts.

Footsteps.

Sirens.

Chaos.

The raid.