Talha's truck was already parked outside when we pulled in.
Parked at the edge of the warehouse lot like it had better places to be, matte black and built like it could survive a war. It looked expensive—because it was. Babo had written the check. Amina and I had picked it out. Mostly Amina.
I wanted to get him something clean. Polished. An Audi like Imran's. Something that said respectability.
Amina laughed in my face.
"He's not a boardroom kind of guy, Lamija. He needs something that growls."
She was right. Of course she was.
Talha loved that Jeep like it had a soul.
Imran's Audi purred beside it as we parked. Quiet. Efficient. Built for a different kind of street. It made sense for us. For who we were.
Talha didn't move like us. He never had.
The warehouse ahead was already pulsing—music, voices, something breaking. Illegal fights had a scent: sweat, rust, adrenaline. It clung to the walls, to your sleeves, to your hair if you let it.
Inside, it was humid and loud. Bodies packed wall to wall. Low ceilings. Bare bulbs. The air felt metallic and damp, like it was still bleeding from the last match.
Imran walked beside me, silent. He loved this place more than he'd ever admit. Not the dirt or the crowd—but the fight. The precision. The spectacle. Talha.
I hated it.
We walked past the usual chaos—shoulder checks, half-drunk laughter, money changing hands in whispers. I kept my eyes forward.
"This place is a sewer," I muttered.
Imran didn't argue. "Talha doesn't pick the venue."
"He chooses the company."
He glanced at me. Not defensive. Not surprised. Just... quiet.
Because he knew I wasn't wrong.
Talha's friends were already posted near the ring—loud, built, and sweating testosterone. I didn't know their names. Never cared to. I'd seen them around him before, always moving in a pack like wolves with gym memberships and impulse issues. Tight black T-shirts stretched across thick shoulders. Dark jeans. Combat boots. One of them lit a cigarette right there by the cage. Another slammed his fist against the metal, hyping the crowd like a street barker.
They looked like they'd been raised by diesel fumes and bad decisions—loud, reckless, magnetic in that way danger sometimes was.
Everything I didn't approve of in Talha was standing right in front of me, multiplied.
"Savages," I muttered. "Absolute animals."
"They're loyal."
"They're a problem."
The crowd surged as the bell rang.
And there he was.
Talha stepped into the ring like it owed him blood. Shirtless. Hands taped. Shoulders cut from stone. His chest rose steady—calm, not cocky. Not showy. Just a man who knew exactly what he was built for. Every movement was controlled brutality—sharp angles, clenched patience, like a storm waiting for permission to break.
They'd paired him with someone bigger again. Massive shoulders. Slower on his feet, but built like a concrete wall.
Of course they had.
I crossed my arms. "Shouldn't there be weight classes? Rules? Something remotely fair?"
Imran gave a dry laugh, eyes locked on the ring. "This isn't a sport, Lamija. It's a spectacle. An illegal one. Talha's never lost. So now they just keep throwing bigger guys at him—waiting to see which one finally breaks him."
The man across from Talha had at least forty pounds on him. Thick arms. Broken nose. Black mouthguard. A monster.
Talha didn't flinch. Didn't blink. He moved like he always did—cold, calculated, unbothered. Power without hesitation. Violence without emotion.
The bell rang again.
And he exploded.
No warmup. No dance. Just impact. He ducked the first swing, landed three quick hits—ribs, gut, jaw—and the man staggered.
The crowd screamed.
I didn't.
I hated watching him fight.
He was too vicious. Too willing to take hits he didn't need to. His shoulder cracked against the edge of the cage, and still he came back swinging.
Not angry. Not reckless. Just something old and violent coming loose. Every strike landed like a reckoning—like the demons clawing up his back had finally been given permission to breathe.
"He's too violent," I muttered. "There's no strategy."
Imran didn't look away. "There's nothing but strategy."
I crossed my arms. "Doesn't look like it."
"He makes it look like chaos," he said. "That's the brilliance. You just don't see the pattern."
The fight didn't last long. They rarely did. By the third minute, the other man collapsed—wheezing, half-conscious.
Talha stood over him, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles. He didn't smile. Didn't raise his arms. Just waited.
The man groaned, curled slightly, clutching his ribs. Talha didn't turn away. Not yet. He watched—still, patient—until the guy sat up and waved him off. Shaky, but conscious.
Only then did Talha step back. No theatrics. No showmanship.
He ducked through the ropes and looked out into the crowd.
And saw us.
Imran pushed forward first, cutting through the crush of bodies like it was nothing. He was built for space, and people moved when he did. I stayed close behind, blazer drawn tight, heels clicking against the concrete with every step.
Talha didn't move.
He waited.
We reached him.
"B-boss," Talha said to Imran, grinning.
"You alright?"
"Didn't—d-didn't take m-much," he replied. "Hands a-are f-fine."
Imran gave him a look—one that didn't need explanation. "Ice them."
Talha started to brush it off.
"Tonight. Both," Imran added.
That was Imran—short sentences, no softness in his tone, but the concern was always there. Just beneath the surface. Always with Talha.
He nodded, then turned to me. "L-lamija."
He moved to hug me—because of course he did. Covered in sweat and blood like some gladiator fresh off the battlefield.
I stepped back and raised both hands. "Don't even think about it. This blazer is cashmere."
He grinned, shameless. "M-missed you t-too. Th-thanks for c-coming."
"Last time. I swear, Talha, I'm not built for this. You looked like a wild animal in there."
He laughed under his breath, wiping a smear of blood from his chin with the back of his hand. "S-still mean."
"And you're still disgusting."
He looked entirely unbothered. Like the blood didn't exist. Like we hadn't both just watched him nearly break someone's jaw.
Typical.
Then she appeared.
A girl from the far side of the ring—black tank top, braid slipping loose, a towel slung over one shoulder like she'd earned it. Medical tape in one hand. There was something territorial in her walk. Confident. Comfortable. Like she'd done this a hundred times before.
She stepped up beside Talha and placed a hand on his shoulder. Casual. Like she was used to the contact.
He reached up and moved it off—gently.
No drama. No scene.
Just quiet dismissal.
"Stubborn," she said, glancing between us like it was something we might all laugh about. "He never ices unless I force him."
I looked her over slowly.
Tattoo near her collarbone. Chipped manicure. The kind of girl who probably knew how to patch a wound, but not when to leave one alone. She had that look—the one women get when they've already decided where they belong.
With him.
I almost felt bad for her.
Almost.
She held out her hand. "Ajla. I help out."7Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCRNGfLXAL1
I took it — quick, firm, indifferent. "Lamija."7Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡi4OPqZBLMP
No smile. No warmth. Just protocol.
Talha didn't say anything.
Didn't introduce her. Didn't explain. Just stood there, still catching his breath.
Which said enough.
I didn't ask.
Wasn't my business.
Before Imran could say anything, one of Talha's friends called out from across the room. Something about the organizer wanting him for his cut.
Talha glanced back at us. Said nothing. Just nodded once.
"Get some ice on your hands," Imran said, voice clipped.
Talha gave a half-smile, then turned and walked off.
Ajla followed without hesitation.
Like a puppy looking for attention.
"I hate that we let this happen."
Imran didn't look at me. "We're not letting anything happen. He chose it."
I glanced toward the ring—toward the crowd still buzzing, the blood still fresh, the shadows Talha had walked back into like he belonged there.
"The crew. The fights. The girl with the towel. It's not chaos anymore—it's a pattern. And one day, it's going to take more from him than he can give."
"He's not one of them," Imran said.
"No," I said. "But he's getting harder to separate."
He didn't argue. Just stood there, watching the same thing I was—only seeing it differently.
We stepped outside. The air was cooler now. The warehouse noise dulled behind us.
I brushed my hands down the front of my blazer. Something to do. Something to shake it off.
"We're going to have to draw a line eventually," I said.
Imran nodded. "Eventually."
But not tonight.
Not yet.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Talha fought. Imran spectated. Lamija judged everyone.
Ajla introduced herself. Lamija forgot her name five seconds later.
We're all doing great.
-Ash&Olive
7Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUrsssYlkiG
