"You're a madman, Viktor," the promoter whispered. "Why take a five-to-one bet?"
At the four-minute mark, the Boxer overextended. Viktor stepped inside the guard, a blur of motion. One strike to the solar plexus, one to the jaw. The Boxer folded. Four left. "You're a madman, Viktor," the promoter whispered
Now it was personal. The brothers charged together, a wall of muscle. Viktor dropped low, swept the legs of the first, and used the falling body as a stepping stone to launch a flying knee into the second. One strike to the solar plexus, one to the jaw
The neon sign above the basement entrance flickered, casting a rhythmic red glow over the wet pavement. Inside, the air smelled of stale ozone and expensive tobacco. This was the "Red Circle," a high-stakes underground arena where disputes were settled not by lawyers, but by stamina. Now it was personal
The Ghost lunged. Viktor didn't retreat; he met the blade halfway. He caught the attacker’s wrist in a lock that sounded like dry wood snapping. The knife clattered to the floor.
The Grappler lunged, trying to take the fight to the floor, but Viktor caught him in a clinch, using the man as a human shield against the brothers' strikes. With a sharp twist, he sent the Grappler into the corner post.
He disappeared into the rainy night, leaving the Red Circle—and five broken men—behind him.