The underground fight club known as The Pit was a hellhole of blood, sweat, and screaming crowds, a place where the line between survival and spectacle blurred into a chaotic mess. It was here that gangs like the Iron Vipers made their bones, their name carved in the blood of men too weak or too stupid to know when to quit. The air in the room was thick with the pungent stench of sweat, alcohol, and the lingering smell of iron. The Iron Vipers ruled this domain with an iron fist, their presence as overwhelming as their reputation. Their leader, Silas "Venom" Kane, was a ruthless mastermind who dealt with anyone who got in the way, but it was his protégé, Dax "Phoenix" Ryker, who was making waves tonight. You could hear the crowd roar as he delivered his finishing blow, a well-placed kick to the ribs of his opponent that sent him crashing to the floor in a heap of broken bones and defeated pride. Dax didn’t even break a sweat. The Iron Vipers, the gang you’d spent years studying, were a criminal empire built on violence, control, and chaos. Arms dealing, illegal trades, and underground fight clubs were their domains, and The Pit was their stage. Dax Ryker, now at the center of it all, had risen from the streets with an ambition as ruthless as it was sharp. He wasn’t just any gang member—he was the face of the Iron Vipers, and every move he made seemed to be calculated to take him one step closer to the top. But tonight wasn’t about his rise to power. Tonight was about you. You had a mission. You weren’t here as a spectator. You were here as a spy. A member of the Red Wolves. The Red Wolves were a rival gang to the Iron Vipers, and the two had been locked in a bitter, bloody feud for years. The Red Wolves dealt in counterfeit drugs, human trafficking, and the darkest corners of the black market. They operated under the radar, more covert, more insidious than the Iron Vipers, but their violence was no less deadly. The gangs had a long history of competition, with each battle between them leaving more bodies in its wake. A failed arms deal between the two had resulted in a massacre—six Iron Vipers dead, and a war that had yet to stop smoldering. For you, this mission was simple but treacherous. Your orders from the Red Wolves were clear: charm the Phoenix, gather intel, retrieve a key, and get out without being detected. You didn’t know exactly what the key was for, but you knew it was tied to the rivalry, and possibly to something even bigger—the kind of operation that could shift the balance of power between the two gangs. The Red Wolves had been probing for any advantage they could find, and this key, this intel, could be their ticket to gaining the upper hand. You were sneaking in and out of places like this under false pretenses, blending in where the Iron Vipers’ presence was strongest. You watched from the shadows as Dax, in the middle of a brutal fight, worked his way through his opponent—his movements fluid, controlled, like a man who had done this a thousand times. As the last blow landed, the crowd erupted in applause. Dax’s opponent crumpled to the ground, unconscious, and Dax stood tall, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. His expression was unreadable as he glanced around, surveying the crowd of bloodthirsty onlookers, before making his way toward the corner to take a breather. You had to act fast. This was your opportunity. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as you followed him, staying low, staying out of sight. You needed to get close enough without drawing attention to yourself, especially not to him. When you finally found him, he was leaning against the wall near the water station, breathing heavily, his shirt soaked with sweat, a thin trail of blood dripping from his nose. His grey eyes were steely and sharp, the mischievous glint still present, even in the aftermath of the fight. The arena’s dim lighting cast shadows across his muscular frame, highlighting the tattoos on his skin. The large phoenix on his right arm. The coiled snake on his left. The barbed wire and the broken hourglass—each mark telling a story of violence, survival, and ambition. He didn’t notice you at first, his focus was on the water bottle in his hand, taking deep swigs to calm his breath, until he did. Dax’s sharp eyes flicked up from the water bottle in his hand, and he met your gaze. There was no recognition in his expression—just a casual glance, as if sizing you up, as if you were just another face in the crowd. A groupie, maybe. Someone who’d come to watch the fight, looking for a piece of the action. He wiped the blood from his nose, a slow, deliberate motion, his lips curling into a half-smile as he observed you. "Hey there, sweetheart" he said, his voice low and rasping from the adrenaline. "You here for the show, or you just like watching a man bleed?" His smirk deepened, as if the question was part of some unspoken game. "I’m guessing you’re one of those groupies who come running up to the cage after every fight, begging for a picture or a drink, huh? Is that it?"