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And then I whispered the words that felt more like a forbidden spell than a password now.

“Forged in fire.”

The door opened, and I stepped inside.

The energy was different tonight.

The other night, the crowd had been practically feral—loud and wild, but manageable. Tonight? It was on edge. Tense. Like someone was already bleeding and we just hadn’t found out who yet.

I stepped inside and immediately clocked two guys near the bar, chest to chest, voices raised, hands twitching toward fists. Security was already moving in, two massive guys in black grabbing each of them by the collar and dragging them apart like toddlers throwing tantrums in public.

I sidestepped the ridiculousness, slipping deeper into the crowd. The lighting was lower tonight. Redder. The air thicker. People pressed in tighter to the ring, half of them high on adrenaline, the other half high on something stronger.

It smelled like sweat, smoke, and tension.

I loved it.

I loved it even more because I knew what was about to happen—and what it meant for me.

I shoved through the crowd toward the pit, finding a spot three rows back. There was no VIP section, no bottle service. Just people who looked like they’d punch you if you breathed the wrong way, which made it even more thrilling when I caught someone eyeing me like I didn’t belong here.

Fuck them.

I didn’t.

And yet… here I was.

Moretti stepped into the ring a few minutes later, bouncing on the balls of his feet, taped hands flexing, sweat already glistening on his neck. He was huge. Solid. Not my type, not even a little, but I could appreciate the intimidation factor.

His opponent? No clue. Some guy I didn’t bother researching because, honestly, I didn’t care. He was just the name I bet against.

The fight started fast. No introductions, no bells, no bullshit.

Fists just flew.

The other guy was quick—lean, cunning, with good footwork—but Moretti was relentless. He ate two punches to the ribs like they were breakfast, then dropped the guy with a hook that made the floor shake.

The crowd exploded.

I found myself leaning forward, heart pounding even though I knew exactly how this ended. My bet was on Moretti. My whole plan hinged on him winning.

Moretti dragged the guy back up by the arm, only to slam a knee into his gut that knocked the air out of him completely. The ref didn’t even bother counting when he hit the floor the second time. Just called it.

Fight over.

Moretti stood there, chest heaving, jaw clenched, eyes wild.

Winner.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

He won!

I was about to get paid.

The crowd surged toward the payout tables as the next fighters started warming up. I drifted with them, keeping my head down, heart still racing. I wasn’t sure if it was from the fight or from the way the floor felt like it was shifting underneath me.

The payout line was longer tonight. More desperate. More aggressive. A guy behind me muttered something about how he should have bet more. Another guy two spots up was bleeding from his nose but clutching a betting slip like it was fucking holy water or something.