After Pyata's shift ended, Youri and Leo made their way toward the underground gathering. The city above still pulsed with neon and noise, but beneath it, the air grew heavier, thicker with anticipation. Tonight wasn't just another fight night.
Tonight was personal.
Youri had asked Boris for a rematch, and against all odds, it had been accepted. Word spread fast. The memory of their last encounter—brutal, one-sided, and unfinished—had lingered in the underground scene like an open wound. Curiosity turned into obsession, and obsession turned into money.
A lot of money.
Because of that, the fight wasn't just on the card—it was the card. The final bout of the night. The main event.
Leo had warned him more than once. Told him to wait. To train more. To gain experience and not rush into the jaws of a monster twice his size. But Youri was dead set. Something inside him refused to let the past stand uncontested.
So they entered the tunnel together.
The deeper they walked, the louder the noise became—voices overlapping, bets being shouted, boots echoing against concrete. The smell of sweat, iron, and stale alcohol clung to the walls. This place didn't pretend to be anything it wasn't.
As they reached the locker room corridor, Mia suddenly appeared from the side, falling into step with them.
Leo glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "Surprised to see you so early," he said with a grin. "What is it—are you worried about someone?"
Mia smirked, adjusting the strap of her bag. "I want to see how this fight goes. I might even place a bet tonight. First time."
Leo stopped walking for half a second, staring at her. "You? Placing a bet?"
She shot him a sideways glance. "I told you before. I have my reasons."
They continued into the locker room.
Toney was already inside, pacing near the benches with his cap tilted back. The moment he spotted them, he pointed at Youri.
"Hey, kid," he said. "Don't try pulling any miracles tonight, yeah? People will go broke."
Youri chuckled lightly.
"Everyone's betting on Boris," Toney continued. "Every last one of them."
Youri shrugged as he set his bag down. "Don't worry, Toney. Whatever happens, happens. Either way, you'll walk out rich—or even."
Toney paused, then laughed, adjusting his cap and clearing his throat. "You've got a point."
With that, he turned and left the room.
Youri began his preparations—wrapping his hands, stretching slowly, focusing his breathing. Across the room, in the far-left corner, Zeus sat quietly on a bench, watching him. He didn't say anything at first.
Then Zeus stood, slung his bag over his shoulder, and started toward the exit. Just before leaving, he stopped.
"Would you bet on yourself tonight?" he asked without turning around.
Youri closed his locker and looked up. "Recently, I'm starting to like gambling," he said calmly. "The lower the odds, the better it feels when you win."
He paused, then added, "So yes. I'd bet on myself. Might be the ticket I need for a better life."
Zeus nodded once, then walked out, the locker door closing softly behind him.
Outside the tunnel, the crowd was packed shoulder to shoulder. Bodies pressed together, voices colliding, eyes hungry for violence. Every seat was filled, every standing spot claimed. All of them were here for one reason.
Youri versus Boris.
Toney stepped into the octagon slowly, soaking it in. He glanced around the arena, then lifted the microphone.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice echoing through the underground chamber, "I hope you're enjoying yourselves tonight."
The crowd roared in response.
"As you all know," Toney continued, pausing for effect, "tonight's fight is special. Because this—this is a rematch."
The noise intensified.
"A rematch between a novice and a specialist. Between fate and brutality. Only destiny can decide how this battle ends."
He raised his arm toward the tunnel entrance.
"So make some noise for… Youri Kronos!"
The crowd exploded—cheers mixed with boos—but Youri walked out without hesitation. His expression was calm, focused. He stepped into the octagon, climbed through the ropes, and took his corner.
Toney winked at him before turning back to the crowd.
"And now," he shouted, "our next contender. Vicious. Relentless. A force of nature."
The lights shifted.
"Make some noise for… Boris the Monster!"
Boris emerged from the shadows, massive and confident. Every step carried weight. He climbed into the octagon and rolled his shoulders, eyes locked on Youri.
The rematch had begun.
The bell rang once—sharp and metallic—and the noise of the crowd collapsed into a single, roaring breath.
Youri and Boris stood across from each other in the octagon, sweat already glistening under the harsh lights. For a brief moment, time felt stretched thin. The memory of their last fight hung between them like a ghost: Youri being overpowered, thrown aside, broken. Boris grinned faintly, confident, certain history would repeat itself.
Then Boris moved.
He charged forward like a freight train, fists already swinging. Youri barely had time to react, raising his guard as a heavy hook slammed into his forearms, the force rattling his bones. Boris followed with a knee aimed straight for the ribs. Youri twisted just in time, the impact glancing instead of crushing—but pain still exploded through his side.
The crowd erupted.
Boris pressed the advantage immediately, cutting off the octagon, forcing Youri backward. Punch after punch rained down—brutal, efficient, merciless. Every strike carried the certainty of someone who had done this countless times before.
Youri ducked, slipped, stumbled. He felt the air leave his lungs as a body shot landed clean. His back hit the cage.
"Stay up, Kronos!" someone shouted from the crowd.
Boris grabbed him, driving a shoulder into his chest and slamming him against the fence. The impact rattled Youri's vision. Boris leaned in close, his breath hot, his voice low.
"You don't belong here."
He lifted Youri and threw him to the mat.
The octagon shook.
Youri hit hard, the world spinning. Boris followed him down instantly, mounting him and raining down punches. Each blow blurred into the next—fists, elbows, raw force. Youri raised his arms, blocking what he could, but cracks formed in his defense almost immediately.
"Finish it!" the crowd roared.
From ringside, Leo's hands clenched into fists. "Move, Youri! Move!"
Youri twisted explainsion blur—pain flared as Boris' fist slipped through his guard and smashed against his cheek. Blood spilled into Youri's mouth. The taste of iron snapped something inside him.
No.
Not again.
Youri bucked his hips, shifting just enough to unbalance Boris. He slipped a forearm under Boris' chin, not enough to choke—but enough to create space. Boris snarled and drove an elbow down, catching Youri in the shoulder instead of the face.
Youri seized the moment.
He twisted, rolled, and barely managed to scramble out from under Boris, pushing himself back to his feet as the referee hovered close, watching carefully.
The crowd went wild.
Boris rose slower this time, irritation flashing across his face. He hadn't expected that.
They circled again.
Youri's breathing was ragged now. Every inhale burned. His ribs screamed with every movement. His vision blurred at the edges—but he stayed focused. He remembered Zeus' words. Mia's warnings. Leo carrying him up the stairs. The feeling of being powerless.
Boris lunged again.
This time, Youri didn't retreat.
He stepped inside the punch, letting it glance off his shoulder, and drove his knee upward. It connected—hard—with Boris' abdomen. The sound was ugly. Boris grunted, surprised more than hurt, but it slowed him.
Youri followed with a quick combination—jab, cross, low kick. The strikes weren't powerful, but they were precise. Calculated.
Boris roared and swung back, a wide haymaker aimed to end it. Youri ducked under it by inches, feeling the wind of it brush past his face. He countered with an elbow to Boris' ribs.
The crowd sensed the shift.
"Holy shit!"
Boris staggered half a step, more shocked than injured. He shook it off and came back harder, grabbing Youri and dragging him into a clinch. Their bodies collided, sweat and blood smearing together. Boris drove knees upward, one after another.
One landed clean.
Youri cried out as his leg buckled. He fell to one knee.
The referee moved closer.
Boris raised his fist, ready to end it—but Youri reacted on instinct. He grabbed Boris' leg as another knee came up and twisted sharply, throwing Boris off balance.
Both men crashed to the mat.
They scrambled, rolling, limbs tangled. Boris ended up on top again, but this time Youri had his legs wrapped around Boris' waist, locking him in guard.
Boris tried to posture up. Youri pulled him down.
Punches landed—short, brutal. Youri's head snapped back. Stars exploded behind his eyes.
He was fading.
Somewhere in the haze, he heard Mia's voice in his head.
Your body will let you down one day.
This wasn't that day.
With what little strength he had left, Youri shifted his hips and slid his arm around Boris' neck. Not clean. Not perfect. But tight enough.
Boris noticed too late.
He tried to pull free, muscles straining, veins bulging. Youri squeezed, ignoring the agony in his ribs, ignoring the black creeping into his vision. His arms felt like fire. His hands trembled.
Boris slammed fists into Youri's side—once, twice, three times.
Youri didn't let go.
The crowd stood on their feet.
"Is this happening!?"
Boris' movements slowed. His punches lost power. His body went heavy.
Youri adjusted his grip, tightening just a fraction more.
Seconds stretched.
Then—
Boris' arm went limp.
The referee dropped to the mat instantly, checking Boris' responsiveness. He lifted Boris' arm.
It fell.
The referee waved his hands.
"It's over!"
The bell rang violently, over and over.
The arena exploded.
Youri released the hold and collapsed onto his back, gasping, staring up at the lights. His chest heaved. His body shook uncontrollably.
He had won.
By the skin of his teeth—but he had won.
Leo was screaming from ringside, jumping like a madman. Mia had both hands over her mouth, eyes wide, relief flooding her face.
Toney rushed into the octagon, microphone in hand, barely containing his excitement.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he shouted, "we have an upset! Against all odds—Youri Kronos wins!"
The crowd chanted his name now.
"KRO-NOS! KRO-NOS!"
The referee helped Youri to his feet, raising his arm. Youri swayed, nearly collapsing again, but he stayed upright. Blood ran down his face. His body screamed in protest.
But he was smiling.
Across the octagon, Boris was sitting up now, breathing heavily. He looked at Youri—not with anger, but with something closer to respect. Slowly, he nodded once.
Youri nodded back.
Tonight, destiny had chosen.
And it had chosen him.