Miles parked his car in the shadow of the old city block, right where the faint thump of bass and distant cheering leaked through the concrete.
The sign above the rusted door read NO ENTRY — MEMBERS ONLY, but it flickered like even the electricity was afraid to stay.
He adjusted his coat, stepped through, and descended the metal stairs into the familiar darkness.
The air hit him thick — sweat, smoke, blood, and cheap whiskey.
Down below, the underground fight club was alive again.
A ring lit by hanging bulbs.
Men shouting, money changing hands.
A fighter slammed another into the ropes — cheers erupted, bottles clinked.
And then, a sudden ripple.
A whisper moved through the crowd faster than the noise of the fight itself.
"Wait… isn't that him?"
"The Grim Reaper?"
"No way— he's back?"
"It's actually him!"
The whispers spread like wildfire. Heads turned. Eyes widened. Even the fighters in the ring froze for a second.
