The underground arena smelled of sweat, blood, and cheap whiskey. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the dim overhead lights barely cut through the haze. The crowd roared, their voices a brutal symphony of violence and hunger.

Alexander Voss stood in the center of the ring, fists wrapped in bloodied tape, his breath slow and controlled. Across from him, his opponent—a thick-necked brute with broken teeth and a cruel grin—bounced on his heels, eager to tear him apart.

The bell rang.

Alexander moved like a ghost. The first punch grazed his jaw, snapping his head to the side. The pain barely registered. He retaliated with a right hook to the ribs, feeling the sickening crunch beneath his knuckles. The brute stumbled, but he didn't go down.

Good.

Pain was a language Alexander spoke fluently, and tonight, he was fluent in violence.

The fight was over in less than two minutes. His opponent hit the ground hard, his body limp. The ref didn't even bother counting. The crowd erupted, their cheers a mindless, primal chant.

Alexander didn't hear them.

His heart pounded in his ears, his pulse drowning out everything but the dull ache in his bones. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the remnants of the fight, and walked out of the ring, ignoring the hands reaching for him, the praise, the money thrown at his feet.

It was never about the fight.

It was about survival.

The locker room was silent, the only sound the slow drip of a leaking pipe. Alexander sat on the bench, staring at his bloodstained hands. He had washed them three times, but the red still clung to the creases of his skin.

A knock at the door.

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Not in the mood."

The door creaked open anyway. A woman stood there, dark hair tucked behind her ears, sharp eyes scanning him like he was a puzzle she had already solved.

"Alexander Voss?"

He exhaled, irritated. "Who's asking?"

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "Eve Laurent. Court-appointed therapist. You missed your session."

A bitter smirk pulled at his lips. "Didn't think anyone would notice."

"I did."

She folded her arms, unshaken by the sweat, the blood, the violence still clinging to him like a second skin.

"Look," he said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "No offense, but I don't do therapy."

Eve tilted her head slightly, studying him. "That's not up to you."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah? And what are you gonna do if I refuse? Arrest me?"

"No." She took a step closer. "But I'll tell you one thing, Alexander—if you think you can outrun the past, you're wrong."

His smirk faded. Something inside him twisted, a flicker of recognition in her words.

Eve's gaze didn't waver. "The mind is a cage. You can fight everyone else, but you can't fight yourself forever."

"And the worst kind of prison is the one you don't realize you're in."

Alexander met her eyes, the air between them charged. He should've laughed. He should've told her to leave.

Instead, for the first time in a long time—he had no words.