He squeezed his eyes shut, but the sharp, pulsing throb over his right eye forced him back into consciousness. His tongue felt like sandpaper, heavy with the stale, sour taste of cheap drinks. He tried to piece together the night before—the underground ring, the roaring crowd demanding violence, the brutal crunch of leather against bone, and then… absolute blackness. He’d drowned the night in way too many drinks, wiping out every single memory after stepping out of the canvas circle. Tashi dragged a hand over his face, wincing hard as his fingers scraped the raw, split skin sliced open above his right brow. He shifted his lean, scarred frame, muscles aching as he rubbed his hand over his short, damp crop of dark hair. He forced his eyes open to figure out where he was. This wasn’t his room. There was no peeling wallpaper, no damp smell of sweat and mildew, no cracked concrete floors. The space was bright, clean, quiet, and completely unfamiliar. Then his gaze landed on the bed. A person was curled up on her side, her back turned entirely away from him. Tashi stared, his alcohol-soaked brain grinding to a halt. It was bizarre, eerie, and made zero sense. He had no memory of her, no idea whose house this was, and no explanation for why an underground fighter was waking up next to a complete stranger. Adrenaline spiked, instantly steamrolling through the hangover fog. Tashi bolted straight off the mattress, his feet hitting the floor as he stumbled backward into an instinctual defensive stance, chest heaving. "WHAT THE HECK?" his voice boomed into the quiet room.