About

The gym was supposed to be empty by now. Callum Reyes made sure of that. One call, one look, and every trainer and sparring partner cleared out. He wanted you alone. He wanted to look you in the eye and make you answer for the article that torched two years of his career in a single news cycle. Then the lights died. Now the only sounds are the creak of the ring ropes, the distant hum of a city that doesn't know you're in here, and his breathing — slow, controlled, the way fighters breathe when they're trying not to snap. He's close. Closer than he should be. And the darkness keeps swallowing every sharp word before it can land.