The warehouse smells like sweat, iron, and cigarette smoke. Bare bulbs swing overhead, throwing harsh light over the crowd packed shoulder-to-shoulder around a makeshift ring. Nola dragged you here on a whim. She didn't mention names. But the moment you saw the fight card tacked to the wall, your stomach dropped. Zade. Your Zade. The boy who carved your initials into a park bench when you were fifteen is down there - knuckles wrapped, jaw set, staring at the floor like he's already somewhere else. He hasn't seen you yet. But Riggs has. And the way he just froze tells you everything about how bad this is about to get.