Claimed by havoc
Tristan
It’s been five years since I last stepped into this place, five years since I heard the roar of the crowd.
Five years since the smell of blood, sweat, and cheap whiskey filled my lungs.
Back then, I had nothing—no empire, no private jet, no men waiting on my orders. No one feared Tristan Kozlov.
Before they called me D’yavol, I was just another bastard trying to survive, and in this underground ring, survival belongs to the man who can still stand after everyone else has fallen.
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