C10 Blood in the Ring

The warehouse stank of sweat, smoke, and iron. Crowds pressed tight against rusted barriers, money changing hands as shouts filled the air. In the center, the ring waited—a patch of canvas stained with years of blood and spit.

Arun rolled his shoulders, breathing deep as his coach tightened the wraps around his fists. The familiar rhythm calmed him. Here, it wasn’t about chains or whispers—it was about fists, sweat, and the clean brutality of combat.

But when the crowd parted, Arun’s stomach turned to stone.

Riku was there.

The Black Dragon stepped into the warehouse as though it belonged to him, his tailored suit gleaming under the harsh lights, his silence heavier than the roar of the crowd. On the other side, another ripple spread—Daisuke. Coat hanging loose, grin sharp as a blade.

Two predators, circling the same prey.

“Shit,” Arun muttered under his breath. He slammed his gloves together, forcing focus back to the fight. “Doesn’t matter. They’re nothing. Just fight. Just win.”

The bell rang.

His opponent lunged—a mountain of a man with fists like sledgehammers. Arun ducked, weaved, drove his elbow into the ribs, then a kick to the thigh. The crowd roared. Each strike reminded him who he was: not a prize, not prey, but a fighter.

But he still felt them.

Daisuke, laughing, mocking him from the sidelines.

Riku, silent, eyes burning like a blade drawn but not yet swung.

Halfway through the second round, the giant’s punch grazed Arun’s jaw, snapping his head back. Blood filled his mouth. The crowd screamed. Arun spat crimson onto the canvas, wiping his lip with the back of his glove.

And for an instant, his gaze flicked to the side.

Daisuke was laughing, calling out for blood. “Break him! Let’s see how long your little lotus lasts before he’s crushed!”

Arun snarled and turned back to the fight—only to catch sight of Riku. The man stood utterly still, silent as stone, but his hands were clenched tight at his sides, knuckles whitening. His eyes weren’t on Arun’s skill—they were locked on the opponent, filled with murderous rage, as if every strike against Arun was an insult to be repaid in blood.

That fury sent a chill crawling up Arun’s spine. Not protection. Not care. Possession. A predator hating anyone else who dared to touch what he wanted.

Rage fueled Arun’s strikes. He ducked the giant’s swing, drove a knee into his gut, then a final elbow to the temple. The man crumpled. The bell rang.

The crowd erupted in chaos. Bets cashed. Drinks spilled.

Arun stood in the ring, chest heaving, blood dripping from his lip. Victory meant nothing. What filled him instead was the sight of Riku’s burning silence… and Daisuke’s amused smirk.

“Disgusting. You think I’m yours? You’re both crazy.”

His words drowned in the roar of the warehouse—but his eyes carried the message.

Both men, from opposite sides of the room, saw it.

And neither would back down.