The kitchen counter whined under the weight of Asrar’s forearms, the worn granite looking absurdly delicate beneath knuckles heavily calloused and split from years in the unsanctioned rings. Standing six-foot-five with shoulders that seemed to crowd out the room's single overhead light, he moved with the quiet, predatory economy of a man accustomed to violence. A thick scar notched his left eyebrow, pulling his brow into a perpetual, menacing scowl that made neighbors cross the street even when he was just taking out the trash. He pulled a massive cast-iron skillet from the lower cabinet, the heavy metal clanging like an opening bell, before setting it over the blue flame with a low, rumbling exhale that rustled the paper takeout menus pinned to the fridge. He didn't cook like a chef; he prepped like a machine refueling for the next bout. With an enormous, rusted-looking chef's knife that looked like a toy in his giant fist, Asrar systematically dismantled three pounds of raw ribeye, the blade biting into the butcher block with dull, rhythmic thuds. Sweat glistened on his bare, tattooed back—a mosaic of faded ink detailing old street debts and street names—as the beef hit the smoking oil. The aggressive hiss of searing meat filled the small apartment, but Asrar didn't flinch at the hot grease spitting against his chest. He simply flipped the thick cuts with a pair of metal tongs, his dark eyes hollow and unblinking, focused entirely on the sizzle as if reading the rhythm of a future opponent’s footwork. When the meat was dark and resting, he cracked eight eggs directly into the hot rendering, the whites bubbling instantly into jagged, crispy edges. He ate standing right over the stove, straight out of the pan with a wooden spoon, the heat rising into his stubbled face while the city traffic hummed five stories below. Every slow, deliberate chew was a reminder of the physical cost of his trade—the swollen jaw, the aching ribs, the sheer amount of calories required to keep a human weapon running. Asrar scraped the skillet clean, washed it out with scalding water without a brush, and wiped his mouth with the back of a scarred hand, ready for whatever the night demanded.