The heavy bass of the underground club pulsed through the concrete floor, each throb of sound sinking into Leo's bones like a second heartbeat. The smell of sweat, cheap beer, and metallic tang filled the low-ceilinged space beneath the abandoned warehouse. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, throwing the crowd into sharp relief—faces half-hidden by hoodies and cigarette smoke, eyes gleaming with hunger for violence or victory.

Leo rolled his shoulders and tightened the tape around his fists, the coarse fabric biting into his skin. He liked that burn. It reminded him of control. Every fight began with a ritual: wrap, stretch, breathe, block out the chaos. Across from him, Ben adjusted his own gloves, jaw set like stone.

"You're light on your right today," Ben muttered, crouching to check the laces on Leo's boots. "Don't give them an opening."

Leo grunted in acknowledgment, shifting his weight to test his stance. Ben didn't waste words; neither did he. That was the language of brothers forged in back alleys and late-night gyms—short sentences, quick nods, a trust built from a hundred shared bruises.

The announcer's voice cracked over the microphone, distorted by the cheap sound system. "Next up—Leo Park versus Reggie Kane! Two rounds, no holds barred!"

The crowd erupted in a wave of cheers and jeers. Money exchanged hands in rapid-fire whispers. Leo inhaled deeply, letting the noise blur into a dull hum. Reggie was a brawler—big shoulders, heavy swings, dangerous if allowed to corner him. But Leo had speed, precision, and the kind of focus born from years of fighting for something bigger than pride.

Ben clapped him on the back. "Keep it clean," he said, though they both knew "clean" didn't exist down here.

The bell rang.

By the final bell, Reggie staggered back, arms limp, eyes glassy. The ref grabbed Leo's wrist and thrust it upward.

"Winner, Leo Park!"

Cheers thundered through the warehouse, money changing hands in greedy waves. Leo barely heard it. His pulse roared louder than the crowd. Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with the faint copper taste of blood on his lip. Another fight. Another paycheck. Another night closer to paying off his sister's tuition and walking away from all this.

Ben hopped the rope and shoved a towel into his chest. "Nice work. Quick and clean," he said, smirking. "Drinks on you tonight."

Leo wiped his face, scanning the crowd with the habitual caution of someone who knew how quickly a fight could spill beyond the ring. His gaze skated over familiar faces—regulars, bettors, shadowy figures in dark jackets—until it snagged on something that shouldn't have been there.

Her. Ben's little sister.

For a heartbeat, Leo thought he was hallucinating. The overhead light caught in her hair, making her stand out like a flare in the smoke-filled gloom.

Cold alarm shot through him, sharper than any punch he'd taken tonight.

"What the hell," he muttered under his breath.

Ben followed his stare and froze. "Shit," he said quietly. "I—uh—didn't know she'd—"

Leo was already moving. He vaulted the rope, ignoring the congratulatory slaps from strangers, and strode toward her with deliberate steps. His pulse, still pounding from the fight, quickened for an entirely different reason. This wasn't her world. She didn't belong in the stink of sweat and spilled beer, watching men bleed for money.

He planted himself between her and the nearest onlookers, shoulders squared like a shield. "What are you doing here?" His voice was low, the growl barely audible over the din.

"Doesn't matter," he cut in, sharper than intended. "You need to leave. Now."