As Viktor walked out of the ring, bruised and bloodied, the promoter approached him with a stack of bills.
The Ghost lunged. Viktor didn't retreat; he met the blade halfway. He caught the attacker’s wrist in a lock that sounded like dry wood snapping. The knife clattered to the floor. As Viktor walked out of the ring, bruised
The neon sign above the basement entrance flickered, casting a rhythmic red glow over the wet pavement. Inside, the air smelled of stale ozone and expensive tobacco. This was the "Red Circle," a high-stakes underground arena where disputes were settled not by lawyers, but by stamina. He caught the attacker’s wrist in a lock
"You're a madman, Viktor," the promoter whispered. "Why take a five-to-one bet?" Inside, the air smelled of stale ozone and expensive tobacco
Viktor took the money, his eyes fixed on the exit. "Because," he said, his voice a low rasp, "when it’s five against one, they get overconfident. And overconfidence is the only opening I need."