The roar of the crowd was deafening, a tidal wave of voices crashing through the packed arena, as the overhead lights blazed down on the ring like judgment itself. The thick, acrid smoke from the machines curled through the air, casting a veil of mystery over the chaos. Every scream, every cheer, resonated as the atmosphere turned electric. The cameras flashed incessantly, capturing every raw moment, every bead of sweat, every violent collision. The canvas floor of the ring was a grim reflection of years of sacrifice, pain, and blood—now slick, glossy, almost reverent under the unforgiving spotlight. And there, in the center, stood the referee, a man carved from years of experience, his voice gravelly but commanding, cutting through the noise like a blade.

"Tonight... we witness more than a fight. We witness fire. We witness pride. We witness the will to rise when the body screams to fall!"

The crowd erupted in response, the sound shaking the very foundation of the arena. And in their midst, under the spotlight, were the fighters—silent, poised, the anticipation a palpable energy. Two beasts, waiting for the signal to tear each other apart.

Rafael Santiago stood in his corner, every muscle tense, every nerve alive. The crowd's roars only fed his ego. The Butcher, they called him, a name built from his brutal style and his bloodstained reputation. His forehead was slick with blood, trickling down his face like a twisted badge of honor. But he didn't flinch. He wrapped his hands with vicious precision, the white bandages stained in pink from past battles. A crooked smirk tugged at his lips as the noise swelled around him. He absorbed it, welcomed it. This was his stage. This was his arena.

But then—a flash of motion, a crack through the air. Jace fucking Maddox.

The thunderous collision hit with the force of a freight train, shattering his jaw with a sickening sound.

Rafael's body locked, his vision darkened, and his breath caught in his throat. His lungs felt like they were drowning, desperate for air, but all he could hear was the violent thump of his heart and the jeering crowd. Then, everything crashed.

*CRASH.

The sharp, violent shatter of glass echoed in his ears, dragging him out of the nightmare. He jolted upright in his bed, gasping for air, sweat clinging to his skin, his chest heaving with the weight of his panic. The dark, expansive room of the Santiago manor greeted him, still and suffocating. His mind refused to calm, the image of that fight—of Jace—staining every thought.

"Fuck," Rafael muttered under his breath, rubbing his face. Another nightmare. The fight. That fucking fight.

He threw the sheets off and stood, his bare feet meeting the cold marble floors of his vast, empty room. As he opened his cabinet and fumbled through clothes, a sharp noise from below caught his attention—the sound of glass breaking. The maid, trembling, kneeled amidst the shards on the floor, horrified.

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't—"

Jasmine Santiago, his venomous sister, appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glinting with disdain. "Do you even realize how much that goddamn glass cost, you dumb harlot?" she hissed, her voice dripping with contempt.

The maid, tearful and shaking, stammered, "I'll pay half—"

*SLAP.

Jasmine's hand cracked across the maid's face with sickening force. Rafael watched from the mirror, a faint, cynical smirk tugging at his lips. Maybe she deserved it. Or maybe, just maybe, Jasmine did it because she could. He didn't care. His focus was elsewhere.

He moved past the mess without a second glance, stepping into the grand hallway that boasted a shrine of trophies, medals—relics of his obsession. Boxing was all he knew, all he was. His father's money had bought him everything. His career, his academy admission, his fights—bribes, corruption, all of it. None of it mattered. It wasn't his victory, not in their eyes. It was always about his father. The man who owned everything, including him.