A Luna And A Whore
were just beginnings.
Across from him, Kade. All darkness wrapped in elegance. No shirt either. Just loose black trousers, blood-colored thread spiraling down his legs like smoke. His body was leaner, his rage quieter. But his smirk burned hotter.
They didn’t speak.
Didn’t bow.
Didn’t even blink at each other.
Just moved.
Like gods made of teeth and bone and pride.
The first strike wasn’t announced—it exploded. Roger lunged first, and Kade dodged, fluid as a shadow. They collided in the center of the circle with a sound that was all skin, grit, and growl.