Prologue Two
Adrian
B lood always looked best under stadium lights.
I grinned as I watched it drip from my opponent’s nose, a perfect, glistening line trailing down his chin and splattering onto the mat.
The crowd was a living, breathing animal, hungry and pulsing, roaring every time I landed a punch.
I didn’t come here for them, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love the sound. It was almost as good as the hunt.
I bounced on my heels, cropped tank clinging to the sweat and blood painting my muscles. My knuckles ached, but I savored it.
I savored the ache, the sting, the way my tattoos flexed and rippled over bruises with every movement.
The other guy, some local favorite, undefeated until tonight, staggered back, blinking through the mess I’d made of his face.
He was big, but not big enough. Not mean enough. Not hungry enough .
I winked at him, flashing a mouthguard-stained grin. “C’mon, pretty boy. Give me your best shot.”
I wanted him angry. I wanted him wild. I wanted him to forget his footwork and his coach’s voice and just swing wildly, like prey does when it realizes it’s trapped.
He did. A wild right hook, noticed from a mile away.
I ducked, slipped inside, and drove my fist into his ribs so hard I felt something crack. He made a noise like a kicked animal, and the crowd howled.
I laughed—couldn’t help it. There was nothing like this. Not hacking a firewall, not watching someone beg for mercy, not even the rush of a new tattoo needle biting into skin.
This was pure and honest. Just two animals in a cage, though only one of us was truly wild.
I circled him, loose and lazy, letting the crowd’s chants fade into white noise. My mind wandered, as it always did when I got bored.
I thought about the new blade waiting for me at home with a steel, acid-etched handle carved to fit my palm just so. I thought about the piranhas in my tank, probably hungry by now.
I thought about how easy it was to break a man, how much fun it was to see what shape he took when he finally snapped.
The ref shouted something, but I ignored him. I was here for the art. For the mess.
For the moment when my opponent realized he was trapped in here with me, not the other way around.
He swung again, desperately. I let him hit me, just for fun. The punch rattled my jaw, copper blooming deliciously across my tongue.
I grinned wider, spat the blood onto the mat, and wiped my mouth with the back of my glove.
“Nice,” I drawled. “You got anything else?”
He didn’t. I finished it in the following exchange—a flurry of hooks, a knee to the gut, and an uppercut that sent him sprawling. The crowd roared.
My vision tunneled as the ref stepped in, waving his arms, shouting my name. Adrian the “Catalyst,” that’s all. The problem. The animal. The predator.
I let them lift my arm, let the lights blind me, let the noise crash over me like a wave. I was alone in the ring, sweat and blood painting my skin, my heart hammering out a rhythm only I could hear.
This and the warehouse were the only places I ever felt truly honest. No masks. No jokes. Just me and the violence and the beautiful, brutal truth of it all.
I blew a kiss to the crowd, winked at the cameras, and sauntered out of the ring, already thinking about what came next.
Maybe a new tattoo to commemorate tonight’s hunt. Maybe a new toy for the piranhas. Maybe something, or someone, worth breaking.
The locker room was a cacophony of fluorescent lights and the sharp tang of sweat and blood, but I felt nothing but a delicious, crackling high.
I peeled the tape from my knuckles, grinning at the way the skin split and oozed just a little.
My reflection in the cracked mirror was a fever dream: messy brown hair plastered to my forehead, green eyes wild and bright, a cropped top streaked with someone else’s blood.
My tattoos—skulls, knives, chains—looked even better under the bruises blooming across my body.
Fuck, I loved this. I loved the mess, the disaster, the way the world sharpened to a single, perfect point when I was hunting.
Most people fought to win. I fought because it was the only place I could truly play outside of the warehouse.
No need to hide the monster under my skin. Just me, the violence, and the crowd screaming for more.
I’d come alone tonight. Jax and Connor had bailed—something about “movie night” with the girls, which I suspected was code for “possessive caveman snuggle-fest.”
Not that I blamed them. Sierra and Estelle were the only two people on earth who could keep those two from burning the city down on a whim .
I’d teased them about it in the group chat, but honestly, I liked the solitude. No one to rein me in. No one to tell me not to smile when I broke a guy’s nose.
I snapped a photo of my battered knuckles, the blood and ink and bruises, and sent it to the group:
Adrian
Winner! Miss me yet?
A minute later, Jax’s number popped up with a selfie. The girls had clearly stolen Jax's phone; it was hilarious.
They were making ridiculous faces at the camera, Sierra with her tongue out and Estelle flashing a peace sign, both wearing what looked suspiciously like pairs of Jax's designer sunglasses.
In the background, a blurry Connor appeared to be lunging toward the camera, and Jax was mid-yell, reaching for his stolen property.
Jax (The Girls)
You won!!! Yay!!!
This is Sierra and Estelle. We stole Jax’s phone!!! Don't tell them!!
I grinned, tapping out a quick reply.
Adrian
Ladies, I'm flattered. Tell Lion his security protocols suck, and I'm getting you both matching "Team Catalyst” shirts.
Jax (The Girls)
Jax is trying to get his phone back, but we locked ourselves in the bathroom!
We think you looked hot. More abs next time please!
I snorted, picturing the mess unfolding in Jax's beach house .
The idea of both girls barricaded in the bathroom while those two idiots panicked outside was better than any post-fight high.
Adrian
For you two, anything.
Tell Jax I'm sending him the therapy bill for my emotional trauma. His stupid perfect hair gives me nightmares.
Another photo appeared, this time just the girls, Sierra pretending to swoon while Estelle caught her.
Jax (The Girls)
OMG JAX IS THREATENING TO brEAK DOWN THE DOOR!
We made Connor buy us nachos to watch your fight.
Uh oh.
Gotta go, they’re getting that look! Byeeee!
I hearted the photo, oddly touched. The thought of them all there, watching me fight, settled something restless inside me.
Even if the guys pretended they were just there to critique my technique, and even if the girls were mostly enjoying the show and stolen nachos.
Adrian
Run fast, girls. I'll avenge your deaths at their funeral.
I tossed my phone onto the bench and let myself sink into the afterglow. The ache in my jaw, the sting in my ribs, the way my heart still hammered like a war drum.
This was living.
I stretched, rolling my shoulders, admiring how my tattoos shifted over muscle. Each was a memory, a trophy, a piece of the life I’d survived.
I caught a glimpse of the other guy being helped out of the ring, his face a ruin of swelling and blood, and felt a surge of satisfaction.
I wasn’t cruel for the sake of it. I just liked seeing what people were made of when you stripped away the pretense. Some broke easily, some surprised you. Most just disappointed.
I pulled on my leather jacket and headed out into the night. The city was humming, neon and alive, and I felt like I could chew through steel.
I ducked into a shop, grabbed a bottle of water and a pack of sour gummies, and flashed a bloody grin at the cashier. She didn’t even flinch. Around here was tough like that.
Outside, I leaned against a streetlamp, letting the cool air sting my skin. I texted Jax again, just to annoy him and see if he’d gotten his phone back:
Adrian
Tell Leo Uncle Adrian says hi. And that I hit harder than you, Lion.
I could practically hear Jax’s indignant sputtering from here. The guy had an ego larger than the Earth, but he’d never beat me at trash talk.
The city hummed around me, neon bleeding through the cracks in brick walls, but inside my chest, it was quieter than it had been in years.
Not peace, I’d never known that particular luxury, but something like a truce with the beast that lived beneath my ribs.
I'd been chasing that silence since I was born and learned how pain felt. Pain had been the first language I'd mastered, spoken fluently in bruises that bloomed purple-black across ribs too small to take the hits.
My parents hadn't loved—they'd consumed, devoured, left me raw and feral, reading micro-expressions like my life depended on it. Because it had.
The twitch of an eye meant incoming violence. A certain tilt of the head meant the bottle was empty and someone needed to bleed for it.
I'd learned to hunt emotions in faces before I could properly read books, tracking danger like an animal scenting predators on the wind.
That guys had been my first real pack. Rough around the edges, full of sharp grins and rolling in money.
That's where I'd learned to laugh like I meant it, where the predator had found its sense of humor.
My phone buzzed, dragging me back to the present. Jax's reply glowed on the screen:
Jax
‘Uncle Adrian’ is still the guy who cried watching a kids’ movie last week.
I grinned. I knew the bastard loved me.
The familiar weight of violence settled on my shoulders as I pushed off from the wall.
Every instinct I'd honed in that childhood hell served me now—reading weakness, finding pressure points, knowing exactly when someone was about to break.
The ring was just the civilized version of what I'd always been built for.
People thought they understood predators. They pictured something wild and obvious, all teeth and claws. They never saw the ones who learned to smile while they circled, who'd been taught by necessity to wear charm like camouflage.
I wandered down the block, thinking about the next fight, the next rush, the next chance to let the monster out to play.
People saw the neon, the jokes, the puppy-dog energy, and thought I was harmless.
They never saw the part of me that craved the break, the snap, the beautiful chaos of violence .
Only Jax and Connor got it. Only the girls saw flashes of it, and they loved us anyway.
My phone sounded again—this time a video, Sierra’s voice giggling in the background as Estelle tried to teach Jax how to braid hair. Connor’s deadpan commentary was pure gold.
I grinned again, feeling something warm and sharp twist in my chest.
I was a predator, sure. But even we could be loved by the right people.
I tossed the empty water bottle into a trash can, stuffed a handful of gummies in my mouth, and headed for the jet, already hungry for the next fight.
The city stretched before me, bright, wild, and full of possibilities. I couldn’t wait to see what I’d break next.