When the door opened, Dax Halloway walked in. His presence was so powerful that the room seemed to move as he walked in.
Dax, who was tall and lean, walked in with a confidence that couldn't be faked, it was earned.
Even though he had been in fights for years, he had a calm, almost relaxed look on his face.
His dark hair was neatly trimmed, and he wore a loose-fitting black hoodie, sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos that decorated his arms like badges of honor.
He moved with a casual swagger, the kind of walk that said he had nothing to prove, even though everyone knew he was a killer in the octagon.
Damon watched as Dax made his way toward them, the fighters parting slightly to make room.
His footsteps were light, almost as if he were gliding rather than walking, a sign of a man who knew exactly how to carry his body.
Every movement was smooth, controlled, like a boxer always in rhythm.
