23

DAVIES

That stillness made the hairs on my arms stand up.

"Bro thought he was the main character," Jax muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"Shut up and watch," I snapped. "Look at their stances. Look at how they distribute their weight."

I studied the Vanguard crew. They did not lean on one leg. They did not cross their arms. Every single member stood poised on the balls of their feet, ready to explode into motion. They were disciplined. They were dangerous.

The announcer finished his speech. The crowd went wild.

"And now, for the exhibition match!" The speakers crackled with feedback. "Vanguard will demonstrate their prowess against the Ironclaw crew!"

The grid cleared out. We moved to the sidelines behind a reinforced plexiglass barrier. The center of the arena emptied, leaving a massive circle of packed dirt.

Ironclaw stepped into the ring. Five massive guys. They looked like bouncers, all bulging muscle and tribal tattoos. They beat their chests and roared at the crowd. The audience ate it up, screaming their approval.

Nathan walked forward. He brought two of his guys. Just three of them against five.

"Are they insane?" Jax pressed his hands against the glass. "That's a negative trade. Three on five."

"Numbers don't mean anything if you control the center of the board," I said. My eyes tracked Nathan.

A buzzer shattered the noise. The match began.

Ironclaw charged like a pack of rabid dogs. No strategy. Just raw, unhinged aggression. The biggest one lunged right for Nathan, swinging a massive right hook aimed at his skull.

Nathan did not blink. He stepped inside the arc of the punch, slipping past the massive fist. He drove his palm upward. The strike connected with the Ironclaw giant's chin. A loud crack cut through the noise of the arena. The giant's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.

One move. One knockout.

"What the fuck," Jax breathed.

The rest of the fight was not a battle. It was an execution. Nathan moved with terrifying efficiency. He did not waste energy. Every step had a purpose. Every strike found a target.

An Ironclaw fighter tried to tackle him around the waist. Nathan sidestepped, grabbed the back of the guy's neck, and drove his knee upward into his face. Blood sprayed across the dirt. The guy dropped.

Nathan's teammates mirrored his precision. They dismantled the remaining Ironclaw fighters in seconds. They dodged wide, sweeping attacks and countered with short, brutal jabs to the ribs and throat. They fought like machines. Cold, calculating, and ruthless.

"Zero diff," a guy from another team whispered behind me. "They just wiped them without taking a scratch."

The buzzer sounded again, signaling the end of the match.

The crowd sat in stunned silence for a split second before erupting into deafening cheers. Medics rushed into the ring to drag the unconscious Ironclaw fighters away.

Nathan stood in the center of the dirt. He was not breathing hard. Not a single drop of sweat shone on his forehead. He straightened his crimson jacket and turned his head.

His eyes locked directly onto mine through the plexiglass.

A challenge.

I did not look away. I held his gaze, letting him know I saw him. I saw the threat. I saw the power. And I did not care.

"Alright, show's over," the event coordinators yelled, waving glowing batons. "All teams, funnel back through the east tunnel! Keep it moving!"

We filtered away from the glass and joined the mass of bodies heading for the exit. The adrenaline in the air was thick enough to choke on. Every team was buzzing. The scent of aggression spiked all around us.

The east tunnel was a bottleneck. Hundreds of fighters crammed into the narrow concrete corridor. The shadows hid the anger, but the tension was loud.

We ended up pressed right behind the Vanguard crew.

"Move faster," Jax snapped, shoving the back of a Vanguard fighter.

The fighter stopped dead in his tracks. He wore a crimson jacket with the number four stitched into the shoulder. He turned around slowly. He looked Jax up and down, a sneer twisting his lips.

"Don't touch me, peasant." Number Four brushed off his shoulder like Jax had left a disease on the fabric.

"Who are you calling a peasant, you basic NPC?" Jax stepped up, puffing his chest out.

Number Four laughed. A cold, empty sound. "You talk a lot of trash for a guy wearing sweatpants to a war. Did your mom dress you?"

"Try me," Jax snarled. His canines elongated, catching the dim overhead light. A low growl vibrated in his throat.

The tunnel around us stopped moving. The crowd sensed the shift. The other teams backed away, forming a tight circle around us. The air pressure dropped.

"Jax, step back." I put a hand on his shoulder. We didn't need a disqualification on day one.

"Nah, let him off his leash."

That voice cut through the tension like a razor.

The Vanguard fighters parted down the middle. Nathan stepped into the space between us. Up close, he was taller than I thought. His eyes were a pale, ice-cold blue. He looked at me the same way he had looked at the Ironclaw fighters in the dirt. Like a problem he could solve in three seconds.

"Keep your dog in line, Davies," Nathan said. His voice was flat. Dead.

"Watch your mouth," I warned him. I dropped my hand from Jax's shoulder and squared up.

"Or what?" Nathan tilted his head. "You're going to bark at me? We just showed you what happened to mutts who stepped out of line."

"You fought a bunch of brain-dead meatheads," I said, keeping my voice low. I didn't yell. Yelling was for people who lacked control. "Don't confuse a warm-up with a real fight."

Nathan smirked. It was a tiny, micro-expression, but it made my blood run hot. "You're built like a twig, Davies. Your whole crew is a joke. You're occupying space better teams deserve."

"Say that again," Jax roared. He lunged forward.

Number Four intercepted him. He shoved Jax hard in the chest. Jax stumbled back, hit the cinderblock wall, and bounced off.

That was the match in the powder keg.

Chaos erupted.

Jax swung a wild right hook. Number Four ducked and drove a fist into Jax's ribs. Another Vanguard guy jumped in, grabbing Jax by the collar of his hoodie.

My team surged forward. Fists flew. The confined space of the tunnel turned into a meat grinder. Bodies crashed against the concrete. Grunts, shouts, and the sickening thud of bone hitting flesh echoed off the low ceiling.

I didn't look at the brawl. My eyes stayed locked on Nathan.

He stood in the middle of the storm, perfectly calm. He waited for my move.

I didn't give him the satisfaction of a wild swing. I closed the distance in two steps. I threw a sharp jab at his face to test his guard.

Nathan slapped my hand away with brutal force. He countered with a strike aimed at my throat.

I ducked under his arm. I pivoted, sinking my weight, and drove a hard left hook toward his ribs.

He blocked it with his forearm. The impact sent a shockwave up my elbow. He felt like a concrete pillar.

"Too slow," Nathan mocked, stepping in to deliver a devastating uppercut.

I slipped back, the wind from his fist fanning my jaw. My adrenaline peaked. The world narrowed down to just him and me. The roaring crowd, the fighting teammates, the flashing lights—everything faded to black. I saw his footing. I saw his center of gravity. I found the opening.

I dropped my stance, coiling the power in my legs. I cocked my right fist back, aiming right for the hinge of his jaw. I put all my weight, all my anger, all my speed into the strike.

Before the punch connected, a hand clamped onto my bicep.

The grip was iron. It burned cold through my sleeve. The force stopped my momentum dead.

She yanked me backward with terrifying strength.

My boots slid across the concrete. I lost my balance, stumbling back into the crowd of fighters.

"Enough."

Her voice was not loud, but it cut through the chaos like a gunshot.

I looked up.

She stood between me and Nathan.