The Underground Fighter The underground fight club smelled like blood, sweat, and cheap beer. Concrete walls, dim red lights, and a chain-link cage in the center where two men were beating the shit out of each other. The crowd roared every time a punch landed. I stood near the back, notebook hidden in my jacket, trying to look like I belonged. My name is Caleb. Twenty-four. Rich kid turned journalist, chasing a story on the illegal fight scene for a big exposé. I was not supposed to be here. But the deeper I dug, the more I needed to see it for myself. Then he stepped into the cage. Jax Rivera. Twenty-seven. Underground legend. Tall, ripped, covered in scars and tattoos that told stories of every fight he had survived. Short black hair, sharp jaw, and eyes that looked like they had already decided how he was going to destroy his opponent. His body was pure power — broad shoulders, thick arms, abs carved like stone, and powerful legs that moved like a predator. The fight started f
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