• Now playing ~

"Control" by Halsey •

The fight club always smelled the same.

Sweat. Blood. Cheap liquor.

Like violence had seeped into the walls and refused to leave.

I hated it.

But I needed it.

Clutching the scuffed black medical kit to my chest, I pushed through the wall of bodies packed around the ring. The air was hot and stale, full of shouts and the metallic tang of blood. My sneakers stuck slightly to the beer-stained floor with every step, and I kept my eyes low, like always.

If you didn't make eye contact, you didn't exist.

And in this place, not existing was the only way to survive.

"Oi, medic!" someone called, waving at me with a blood-slicked hand. "Over here!"

I ducked my head quickly, weaving through the crowd until I reached the fighter slumped against the ropes. He was breathing heavily, blood running down from a cut over his eyebrow, staining the collar of his shirt.

"Hold still," I murmured, pulling on gloves. My voice always sounded smaller than I wanted it to. "This won't take long."

He grunted but didn't argue as I pressed a cloth against the cut. My hands moved on instinct, steady and practiced. Patch them up fast, stop the bleeding, make them presentable enough to be thrown back into the pit. That was my job.

Not to care.

Not to get noticed.

The fighter hissed when I threaded the needle. "You're good with those hands, kid."

I forced a tight smile. "Just steady."

"Beta, right?" he asked casually, squinting at me through the blood dripping into his eye.

The word felt like a knife every time. But I nodded. "Yeah. Beta."

He chuckled, wincing when I tightened the stitch. "Makes sense. Too calm for an alpha, too... plain for an omega."

Plain.

I held onto that word like a lifeline. If they thought I was plain, I was safe.

The suppressants dulled the truth — smothered my scent, my instincts, everything that marked me as what I really was. They left me weak, exhausted most days, but safe. Safety was worth the price.

I tied the last knot and packed my tools away quickly. "You're fine. Don't get back in the ring until the bleeding stops."

The fighter muttered thanks and stumbled off.

I stood, exhaling shakily, scanning the crowd for the next call. The noise pressed in from all sides — shouts, curses, the slam of fists against flesh.

And then the atmosphere shifted.

It wasn't loud at first. It was quiet, subtle. The kind of change you felt in your bones before your brain caught up. The people near the entrance moved aside almost instinctively, as if gravity itself was pulling them out of the way.

I didn't need to look up. I knew who it was.

Andrew Hua.

The Enforcer.

The man whose name carried like a threat through the entire underground.

I risked a glance anyway — and instantly regretted it.

He moved through the crowd like he owned it, shoulders squared, jacket unzipped just enough to reveal the scar that cut across his collarbone. His expression was unreadable, his eyes dark, scanning the room with the kind of cold precision that made my chest tighten.

People didn't cheer for him the way they did for fighters. They didn't dare. They just moved, silent and wary, like the shadow of a predator had passed overhead.

My stomach twisted. I bent down quickly, pretending to rummage through my kit. The last thing I needed was Andrew Hua's eyes on me.

But fate was cruel.

When I glanced up again, his gaze was already there. On me.

His gaze pinned me before I could look away.

Dark. Unrelenting.

Like he was peeling back the skin I'd stitched around myself and searching for the truth underneath.

I forced myself to keep my expression neutral, heart slamming against my ribs as I busied myself with a roll of bandages I didn't need. Maybe if I looked busy enough, he'd lose interest.

"Han."

The sound of my last name, spoken in that low, steady voice, froze me in place.

Everyone knew Andrew Hua didn't waste words. If he called you, you answered.

I swallowed hard, turning slowly. "Y-yes?"

He stood less than a few feet away now, tall enough that I had to tilt my chin slightly just to meet his eyes. Up close, the scar along his knuckles was even more jagged than it looked from afar. It wasn't the kind of scar you got from one fight — it was the kind you earned over years of violence.

"You patched up the kid in the second match?" he asked.

I nodded quickly, clutching the strap of my kit like a lifeline. "He's fine. A few stitches, that's all."

Andrew's eyes flicked over my face, unreadable. "You always say that."

I blinked, caught off guard. "Say what?"

"That they're fine." He tilted his head slightly. "Like you don't notice the damage."

"I notice," I said softly, my throat dry.

"Do you." It wasn't a question. It was a test.

His presence pressed heavy against me, not just from his size but from the weight of who he was. The Enforcer. The man who made debts disappear. Who broke bones like it was routine. And yet, instead of looking away, I found myself caught in his gaze.

For one terrifying moment, I thought he could smell past the suppressants. That he knew.

I forced a laugh, brittle. "It's not my job to care what happens in the ring. Just to fix it."

Andrew didn't move, didn't blink. His eyes swept over me slowly, and I swore the air between us tightened. Then, finally, he leaned back a fraction.

"You look pale."

"I— I'm fine."

"Mm." He didn't sound convinced.

I swallowed, my pulse skittering. "It's just late. Long night."

His gaze lingered a second longer before he finally stepped back, turning toward the crowd.

But not before he said, almost casually, "You should take better care of yourself. Weakness doesn't last long in a place like this."

And then he was gone, disappearing into the smoke and shadows like he'd never been there at all.

I stood frozen, the echo of his words pulsing in my head.

Weakness doesn't last long.

The noise of the crowd swallowed him the moment he turned away.

But I couldn't stop staring at the space he'd just left, like the air itself was still charged from his presence.

I hated it.

I hated the way my chest tightened, the way my pulse refused to calm down.

He couldn't know.

Clutching my kit to my chest, I slipped down the narrow hallway that led to the medic's room — a tiny closet with a sink that barely worked and a cracked mirror above it. The door creaked when I pushed it open, and I shut it quickly behind me, leaning back against the peeling wood as if I could keep the whole world out.

The mirror's reflection didn't lie.

My face was pale, lips too dry, eyes shadowed like I hadn't slept in days.

Pathetic.

I twisted the cap off the water bottle I kept hidden in my kit and swallowed down a mouthful, trying to steady my breathing. The faint chemical taste of the suppressant pill I'd taken hours ago still clung to my tongue. Normally, by now, the effects dulled enough to make me feel like a ghost — invisible, harmless. Tonight, though, it felt like the ghost had been caught staring back at the living.

Andrew Hua had looked at me like I wasn't invisible at all.

I dropped the bottle onto the sink, gripping the cold porcelain with both hands until my knuckles whitened.

Weakness doesn't last long in a place like this.

The words repeated in my head like a warning. Maybe that's all they were meant to be. But the way he'd said them... it was like he wasn't talking about fighters at all. Like he was talking about me.

And if he suspected—

I cut the thought off before it could spiral. No one had ever known. Not since my first heat, when my mother shoved the suppressants into my trembling hands and begged me to never let the truth slip.

"Don't let anyone know, Elliot," she'd whispered, voice hoarse as she held me through the fever that tore my body apart. "Not even Lucas. Not anyone. Promise me."

I had promised. And I'd kept that promise. For years.

Even when my father left without looking back.

Even when the kids at school whispered about how late I was to manifest.

Even when Lucas looked at me like I was a fragile piece of glass.

I'd survived. I'd built walls so high and masks so perfect that no one could ever guess what I was underneath.

And then Andrew Hua had looked at me.

Like he could see the cracks forming.

The club's bell rang faintly in the distance, announcing another round. The sound made me jump, water sloshing over the sink's edge onto my hands. I shook them off quickly, grabbing the kit.

If I wanted to keep surviving, I needed to stay invisible.

Unremarkable.

Plain.

I couldn't afford to let the Enforcer — of all people — see through me.

I forced myself to leave the room, stepping back into the hallway's dim light.

But as I walked toward the medic's corner, my chest tight and my hands trembling, a single thought refused to let me go.

What if it was already too late?

•