Where the Fire Started

The first time Zayn Kross saw him, he was covered in blood that wasn't his own.

Not the good kind of blood—not the spray across the knuckles after a clean knockout, not the slick smear of victory after a fight well-fucked. No, this was the cheap shit. The kind that came from some meathead's nose when Zayn got bored and decided to end things early.

Bloodnite IX. The kind of underground scrap that didn't even have a real promoter, just some ex-con with a PayPal account and a dream. Held in the carcass of an old brewery in West Carson, where the concrete still smelled like piss and the air clung to your lungs like a bad habit.

Zayn was twenty-one, still too young to be this fucking tired, still too angry to be anything but dangerous. He'd just popped some steroid-case's shoulder out of its socket in under a minute, and the crowd had lost their minds like he'd cured cancer. He didn't give a shit. He was already in the back hallway, shirt off, sweat cooling on his skin, wrapping a towel around his busted knuckles like it mattered.

Then—a sound. Not the usual post-fight chaos. Not the drunks or the dealers or the groupies trying to sneak backstage. Click. Dress shoes.

Zayn didn't look up immediately. He let the guy get closer, let him stand there like he had a fucking right to. Then, slow as a predator deciding whether to pounce or play, Zayn lifted his head.

"Ballet's down the street, princess," he said, voice rough from yelling, from snarling, from not giving a single fuck. "You lost?"

No answer. Just a look. The kind that scraped over Zayn's skin like fingers testing a blade's edge.

Zayn stood. Not because he gave a shit about respect, but because he liked the way guys like this had to tilt their heads up to meet his eyes.

"You one of those rich freaks who gets hard watching guys bleed?" Zayn asked, rolling his shoulder, the motion lazy, deliberate. "Or you here to offer me a job?"

A beat. Then—a black card flicked toward him. No name. No bullshit. Just a number and one word: CALL.

Zayn snorted. "The fuck is this, a bad porno?"

But the guy was already walking away.

Zayn didn't call for three days. Not because he was playing hard to get—fuck that—but because he wanted to see if the itch would fade. It didn't. On the fourth night, drunk off cheap whiskey and the kind of boredom that made his fists ache, he dialed.

No hello. No name. Just—"I want your company."

Zayn laughed. "Yeah? That gonna cost you extra."

"You'll be paid for your time."

And that was that.