Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

To the fighters—those who battle their fears, 

their pasts, and the odds stacked against them. May you 

find freedom, strength, and peace. And to this friend who really wanted to read this story. This is for you.

PS: buckle up your seatbelts in chapter 2, it’s an emotional rollercoaster.

*

“ This place chews you up and spits you out, and no one even remembers your name. Because nobody even cares.”

•----------•

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a swirling storm of drunken cheers, laughter, and excited shouts. The neon lights of the arena buzzed and flickered, their harsh glow bathing the crowd in an unnatural hue. However, under the cheers rested an uneasy tension and hushed competitiveness as all waited for the next fighters.

Wooyoung leaned against the cold rusty steel of the locker room door, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck as he listened to the roar of the audience outside.  He loved it—the energy, the chaos, the way the world melted away until it was just him and his opponent. Nothing else mattered. No hatred, no anger, no sadness. All of it was stripped away, replaced by a peaceful hum in his mind, a singular command reverberating through him: fight, fight, fight. This was his stage, his symphony, and every fight was another chance to burn brighter than anyone else dared.

But tonight? Tonight was different.

The second they announced his opponent, the excitement in Wooyoung’s chest twisted into something sharper, hotter, and oh boy, definitely more dangerous.

San. 

Better known in the ring as Outlaw. 

Even now, just the name made Wooyoung’s jaw tighten, like an irritating song he couldn’t get rid of. Outlaw—how fitting, though Wooyoung would argue that the nickname the fans adored wasn’t quite right. “Ice Prince of Neonox’s Underground City” suited him better. Outlaw implied rebellion, chaos, passion. San was none of those things.

Instead, he was cold, untouchable, calculated.

The name wasn’t his own, of course. Like all the fighters, it was chosen by the Ringmaster. But even San’s fans clung to it, painting him as a lone wolf, a legend who never wavered under pressure. Wooyoung hated that image almost as much as he hated the man himself.

Not that he’d ever admit it out loud.

San never broke a sweat, never lost his temper, never cracked under pressure, he was precise, unrelenting but most of all absolutely infuriating. He didn’t fight for the crowd like Wooyoung did. He fought to win, and he did it so methodically that it made Wooyoung’s teeth itch. The few times he had to train against San, the latter acted like he was two steps ahead of him. Like Wooyoung was predictable. Like he wasn’t worth taking seriously. 

Sure, San was good. No, not good—great. But great wasn’t fun. Great wasn’t exhilarating. Great was boring.

Wooyoung preferred his own style: unpredictable, chaotic, alive . Where San was cold and calculating, Wooyoung was a wildfire. He thrived on the unexpected, and his fights were entertaining for the public not just because of his skill but because of the energy he brought to the ring. He lived for the moments when the audience gasped, unsure if he’d pull off a ridiculous move or land flat on his face.

That was the big difference between them. San fought to win; Wooyoung fought to remind the world he was alive.

━◦○◦━

His locker room door creaked open, and one of the handlers stuck their head inside. “You’re up in five.”

Wooyoung offered a lazy salute, a sly grin curling his lips. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

The handler rolled their eyes exasperatedly and left, muttering something about how he never took anything seriously.

Alone again, Wooyoung turned to the cracked mirror above the sink. His reflection stared back at him, fractured and distorted by the jagged fissures that spidered through the glass. The flickering lamp above cast harsh shadows across his face, accentuating the faint scar slicing through his right eyebrow—a souvenir from a fight that had been too close for comfort. His eyes traced the hollow contours of his cheeks– from the inconsistent meals and sleepless nights that came with his life.

He dragged a hand through his unruly, bright red hair, the longish strands catching the dim light like embers. Grabbing a hairband from the counter, he tied the fiery mop into a high ponytail, his lips curving into a faint smirk. The reflection stared back at him, his grin confident, almost cocky. 

“Looking good, Nero,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with a hint of self-mockery. But the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

For a brief moment, the grin slipped. The locker room fell silent, the roar of the crowd muffled by the thick walls. Wooyoung’s gaze dropped to his hands, scarred knuckles flexing involuntarily. His fingers trembled, just for a second, before he curled them into fists.

Focus.

Opening the door to his locker he stepped out into the open forcing the doubt back into the depths where it belonged. The walk to the arena was a tunnel of sound and light, overwhelming and exciting at the same time. The moment he emerged from the shadows into the neon lights, the crowd erupted, a mix of cheers and boos that made his heart race. He fed off their energy–like a drug, sharp and exhilarating, raising his arms and grinning like he owned the place. "You ready for a show?!" he shouted, grinning as the cameras zoomed in on his face. Somewhere in the chaos, Wooyoung caught the sound of his name– Nero , chanted back at him, and the fire in his chest roared louder.

But then the light shifted, cutting across the arena to the other side.

San stepped into the ring, his expression as blank as ever. The bastard didn’t even acknowledge the crowd. His dark, sleeveless jacket shimmered faintly under the neon lights, and the gleam of his neon knuckle protectors drew every eye as he adjusted them with calm. His dark hair was slicked back like always giving him an even more intimidating appearance and his siren eyes stared coldly forward, devoid of any visible emotion. He didn’t need theatrics. He was all business, and that was enough to set the crowd buzzing.

Focus.

Their eyes met across the ring, and for a split second, everything else faded.

San didn’t glare. He didn’t smirk. He just stared at Wooyoung like he was another problem to solve, another problem to beat up. 

It pissed Wooyoung off.

The announcer’s voice suddenly boomed through the speakers, hyping up the fight. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s match is a clash of titans! I can hardly contain my excitement! Two of your favorites, facing off! Who will come out on top? On one side, the untouchable, the unstoppable Outlaw! And on the other, the fearless, the unpredictable Nero!"

The crowd cheered and whistled energetically, impatient and hungry for the fight that was about to unfold.

Wooyoung leaned against the cage bars, cracking his knuckles with a sharp snap, then stretched his arms overhead. He took a deep breath, forcing the adrenaline to settle into a steady rhythm. This wasn’t the first time he’d faced off with a powerhouse like San. It was just another countless fights.

Another fight he would win.

More agile than powerful, Wooyoung didn’t rely on brute strength—he fought with tactics, speed, and unpredictable creativity. That was his advantage. And everyone liked him for that; his unpredictability. 

He kept his gaze locked on San, who was rolling his shoulders, stretching the muscles in his back, preparing himself calmly for what was to come. Every movement from San seemed calculated, experienced. He knew what he was doing. His wide shoulders flexed beneath his dark gear, and despite Wooyoung's best efforts to maintain control, his pulse quickened.

No. He wouldn’t let that phase him. He could handle this. He had to.

The crowd cheers boomed in his ears.

One minute or the other now…

The bell rang, and Wooyoung sprang forward without hesitation, fists up, already grinning. He wanted to feel San react, to break that icy composure he always wore. His first jab was fast, aimed at San's ribs, but the latter twisted out of the way, countering with a clean strike that barely missed Wooyoung’s jaw.

“Quick,” Wooyoung taunted, circling him, “but you’ll have to do better than that.”

San didn’t say a word. Of course, he didn’t. He never did.

Instead, he lunged, and Wooyoung barely ducked in time. Sans’ moves were calculated, every punch designed to wear him down, to control the fight like Wooyoung was just one of his countless puppets. Wooyoung hated it. And worse? He loved it. Fighting him was like dancing on the edge of a knife.

Focus.

He was fast, faster than Wooyoung cared to admit, but speed wasn’t everything. Wooyoung twisted mid-step, his body a blur as his leg whipped toward San’s shoulder. 

The block came almost instantly, San’s arm meeting Wooyoung’s kick with a dull thud. The impact pushed San back a step, his footing shifting slightly, and for the first time, Wooyoung caught it—a flicker in those cold, calculating eyes.

Anger? No.

Frustration.

A grin tugged at the corners of Wooyoung’s lips. That was new. And oh how Wooyoung liked it.

“What’s the matter, icy boy? Thought I saw a crack in the ice,” he grinned, circling San, his fists dancing in front of his face in protection bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

San didn’t bite as expected. His sharp gaze never left Wooyoung. If the words bothered him, he didn’t show it. That lack of reaction made Wooyoung’s grin widen.

“Come on, Sannie,” Wooyoung continued–the nickname mockingly rolling on his tongue, his tone sing-song now. “Let’s see that precision of yours. Or are you finally worried I’m too quick for you?”

San made a subtle shift, but Wooyoung caught it. That was the only warning he got before San moved, and in an instant, he was next to Wooyoung, his neon knuckle protections a blur of color.

Wooyoung’s reflexes kicked in, and he darted back just as San’s fist shot forward, narrowly missing his jaw. The crowd roared in excitement as the two fighters turned around each other like predators.

San’s punches came fast, each one aimed with terrifying precision. Wooyoung dodged and deflected, his grin never quite leaving his face as he used his agility to keep just out of reach. 

But then, San changed his rhythm.

A feint—a sharp twist of his wide shoulders that made Wooyoung react too early. It was all San needed. His next heavy punch connected, a solid hit to Wooyoung’s side that sent pain radiating through his ribs.

Oh shit, that hurt like a bitch.

Wooyoung staggered but caught himself before he fell. For a moment, his breath hitched, his grin faltering as the ache radiated through his torso. But he refused to let it show for more than a heartbeat.

 “Okay,” he breathed his heart thumping loudly in his chest, his voice tinged with a mix of pain and exhilaration. “That was good.”

He could do this. He just needed to breathe. Breathe, Wooyoung, breath, and think. He thought to himself, in an attempt to ground himself. He could do this.

Focus.

With a spark of defiance, he threw his arms into the air, twisting his head slightly toward the roaring crowd. “You want more?!” he shouted, his voice ringing through the arena like a battle cry.

The crowd erupted once again, their cheers a chaotic mix of excitement and bloodlust. Wooyoung took it all in, letting it run through his veins like an energizing drink. This was how it worked here—amuse the fans, play along with their hunger, and you’d find a way to survive.

“You’ll have to punch me harder to take me down, Sannie darling,” Wooyoung taunted, his smirk firmly back in place—the crowd’s favorite mask.

San’s gaze didn’t waver. His fists stayed steady but his eyes narrowed just slightly. “Keep talking,” he muttered, his voice low and measured. “It’s all you’re good at.”

The crowd roared at his words, and Wooyoung couldn’t help himself; his grin widened further, splitting his face with triumphant mischief.

“He speaks!” he cried out dramatically, throwing his arms wide as if presenting San to the audience. The laughter swelled, feeding his energy. He felt good, he felt as if the crowd belonged to him.

If Wooyoung hadn’t been watching closely—if he didn’t know how to read even the smallest cracks in people—he might have missed it. The faintest twitch of San’s brow. The way his tongue darted across his lips, once, twice as if trying to swallow something down.

Anger? Maybe. Frustration? Possibly.

But there was something else. Something sharper, more cutting. Anxiety .

It was visible in the slight tension of San’s jaw, in the way his eyes darted briefly around the arena and at the ringmaster's booth. It wasn’t much, but it was there, visible to someone who knew how to look for it.

Anxiety.

As if the seconds ticking by were slipping through his fingers.

As if there were consequences if this fight didn’t end soon.

Wooyoung’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment, a flicker of curiosity replacing the bravado. What had San so rattled?

It was not him, his teasing and prodding did not affect this mountain of a man. Nor was it the crowd, all fighters were used to the harsh digs, laughter, and mockery that was sent their way. 

There was something else…

The answer didn’t come. San moved, one fist cutting through the air with a speed that left no time for questions. Wooyoung dodged just in time, the grin snapping back into place as if nothing had happened.

The fight stretched on as they exchanged punch after punch, kick after kick. Both were sweating badly and blood trickled down Wooyoung’s temple, warm and sticky as it mixed with the salty sheen of sweat on his skin.

Suddenly San managed to land a spinning kick to the side of his face, sending him skidding across the cage floor. 

Dazed, Wooyoung scrambled to his feet, his fingers scraping against the mat for balance. Pain lanced through his skull, sharp and searing, making his vision swim. The deafening roar of the crowd faded to a distant hum, drowned out by a faint, high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Focus.

The word pounded in his mind, desperate.

Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus, focus, focus, focus, focus, focus–BREATHE.

He dragged in a ragged gasp, and the world snapped back into place just in time. San was already bearing down on him again. His feet slid across the floor as he braced himself, forcing his body to keep moving.

San didn’t stop though, launching another attack as soon as Wooyoung was on his feet. Wooyoung managed to block the blow, but the sheer force of it sent him sliding back across the mat. His arms shook with the effort, his muscles screaming in pain.

“Not bad,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and unsteady before spitting blood onto the mat. “But don’t think you’ve won yet.”

The crowd only cheered louder, their voices pounding in his ears. People banged against the cage bars, some spilling their beer as they screamed for more.

Wooyoung could see it in San’s eyes—that flicker of annoyance, like Wooyoung, was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. Most fighters would already be on the ground by now, either begging for mercy or unconscious from one of San’s lethal blows. That was the Ice Prince’s signature, after all: cold, efficient, murderous. 

But Wooyoung wasn’t on the floor.

And that fact alone made him laugh, even as pain radiated through his bruised ribs from their last exchange. His chest heaved, but the grin never faltered.

Because the thing about Wooyoung?

He didn’t break.

Not for the Ice Prince, not for anyone.

By the time the bell rang, they were both wrecked. Wooyoung’s ribs screamed with every breath, his face pulsed with sharp, throbbing pain, his cheekbone was swollen to the size of a small bruise-blooming moon and the floor was smeared with blood sweat and grim.

The announcer’s voice crackled through the speakers, a flat declaration that felt like an insult. “It’s a draw!”

A what?

A draw.

A fucking draw.

Wooyoung blinked, refusing to believe it.

The crowd erupted, not in cheers but in groans and angry shouts.

But Wooyoung didn’t move.

It should’ve felt like a victory. Instead, it felt like a question left unanswered.

His eyes locked onto San, who stood a few feet away, chest heaving, blood trickling from his nose, and a deep gash on his brow—the result of Wooyoung’s perfectly timed kick, (which brought him immense satisfaction). San still stood there, in a fighting stance, his muscles tense, his fists half-raised, as if he couldn’t quite grasp that the fight was over—or that no one had won.

Wooyoung’s own hands stayed clenched, trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the angry roar of the crowd.

San stared back, his expression maddeningly unreadable. Strands of his slicked-back hair had come loose, falling across his face in a way that gave him an almost ethereal air. Wooyoung hated it.

For a second, he thought San might say something. An insult? A dig? A begrudging acknowledgment? He didn’t know, but the anticipation hung heavy between them.

But San said nothing.

He never did.

Instead, he turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the center of the ring with the disappointed shouts of the crowd that wanted a rematch.

Wooyoung’s knuckles slowly loosened as he watched San’s retreating figure disappear into the neon-lit tunnel. The roar of the audience faded into the background, drowned out by the memory of San’s eyes.

Sharp. Dangerous. Calculated.

But beautiful—so achingly beautiful that it hurt more than any blow San had landed on him.

And now those eyes were gone, leaving a strange and confusing emptiness in Wooyoung’s chest that throbbed far worse than his battered ribs ever could.

━◦○◦━

Laying on his bed in the dimly lit locker room, Wooyoung stared at the cracked ceiling above him, its surface marred with graffiti and marks left by fighters who came and went before him. The adrenaline from the fight still hummed faintly in his veins, but the quiet was starting to settle in, and with it, his thoughts.

Fighting San had been strange, unsettling in a way Wooyoung couldn’t quite articulate. It felt like running headlong into a storm. He was lost, unsure of himself in ways he hadn’t felt in years. Doubt clung to him.

This state of mind brought with it memories he’d buried deep. Memories of how he got here.

Small. Innocent. Oblivious.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, trying to steady his racing heart.

Wooyoung remembered the first time he set foot in Neonox’s Underground City. The streets seemed alive with their own pulse—neon lights flickering ominously around each corner and alley. Voices whispered in hushed tones, sharing secrets he wasn’t meant to hear. Most importantly, he could hear the distant hum of illegal matches echoing through the depths, faint but unmistakable.

It was new. Unknown. Terrifying.

Back then, he wasn’t a fighter—not really. Just a scrawny kid with a quick tongue and an uncanny knack for trouble. His first fight hadn’t been in a ring or under spotlights. It had been in a cramped, filthy alley, fists flying out of sheer desperation.

That was where North found him.

North.

Just North. No surname, no family—just the boy with sharp eyes and a sharper grin, who had saved him when no one else would.

“Kid, you’ve got good moves,” North had said, extending a hand to help him up. Wooyoung had been on the ground, his body aching and bloodied after fighting tooth and nail against two older men who had cornered him for their own twisted amusement. “But you’ve got no discipline. Wanna fix that?”

North was the kind of person who could sell you a broken lightbulb and make you believe it was a diamond. For some reason, Wooyoung said yes.

That was when Wooyoung discovered the underground fighting ring. Having no money, no food, and nowhere to sleep, the only thing he could do was nod his head weakly, when asked if he wanted to join and become a fighter.

North had told him that he didn’t need to, that he could feed both of them without Wooyoung needing to fight. But Wooyoung refused. If he were to be with the older boy then he would stay by his side.

North had taught him everything he knew—how to throw a punch that hurt more than it looked, how to read an opponent before they even moved, and how to survive in the arena without losing yourself. He was more than a mentor; he was family, the only real family Wooyoung ever had.

But family didn’t last long in Neonox’s Underground City.

The memory of North’s last fight came rushing back, painfully sharp and close, as if it had only been a few days instead of several years. It was supposed to be a routine match, just another casual night in the underground ring. North would win, get paid, and even share some with Wooyoung if he was lucky enough. But this time the opponent had been bigger, meaner, and rigged with enhancements. Wooyoung had screamed at North to stay down, but pride—stupid, blinding pride—kept him standing.

By the time the match was over, so was North.

Wooyoung’s eyes snapped open, the phantom echo of the past fading as he stared at the ceiling again. His fists clenched at his sides, the scars on his knuckles pulling tight and the new cuts, stinging painfully reminding him of what had happened not too long ago that night.

North’s death—that was why he fought. It was the reason he threw himself into the chaos of the arena, night after night, the roar of the crowd dull compared to the roaring vengeance in his chest. He’d made a promise to himself, a promise carved as deeply into his soul as the scars on his hands. He wouldn’t leave this world until he found that man—the one who had taken everything from him.

And when he did, there would be no mercy.

Wooyoung’s chest tightened in sickening satisfaction as he imagined it. That man, broken and beaten, begging for forgiveness at his feet. And when he no longer had a voice to plead with, when every ounce of pitiful defiance was crushed beneath the weight of his sins, Wooyoung would have the satisfaction of putting a bullet through his sick, twisted head.

Then, he would be free.

Free to let go of the weight pressing down on his chest. Free from the nightmares, the suffocating guilt, the restless ache in his bones that no victory in the ring could soothe. Free to join North.

But until that day, he had to keep fighting.

However, all of this wasn’t all about vengeance or survival. It was also about taking control, about refusing to let anyone else dictate his fate. Every punch he threw, every fight he won—it was proof that he was no one's puppet, that no one could pull his strings.

And maybe that’s why San got under his skin so much.

San wasn’t just calculating; he was in control in a way that felt maddeningly familiar. Every movement was deliberate and precise like he had rehearsed it a thousand times. It reminded Wooyoung of the way North had taught him to fight—calm, thought over, efficient.

Except North’s lessons had been about survival, about finding a sliver of hope in a world that wanted to crush them both in its merciless sharp teeth. San’s style, though, felt cold, detached, empty. This wasn’t survival, it was dominance, as if he fought to remind the world that it would always bend to him.

It felt wrong, vile, disgusting. Fighting wasn’t supposed to be neat and calculated. It was supposed to be chaos, unpredictable, and raw, it was about letting go and freeing yourself from feelings that crushed you down. 

And fighting San?

It was like staring into the mirror of someone he could have been if he hadn’t met North—controlled, calculated, but ultimately hollow. So hollow…

Fighting San was a challenge. A way to prove to all, and to himself that chaos wasn’t a weakness, that unpredictability could break and destroy even the best-constructed strategy. A way to prove, in some strange, quiet way, that what North had taught him still mattered.

The door creaked open, pulling Wooyoung out of his thoughts. A handler poked their head in. “You’re up for post-match checks. Let’s go.”

Wooyoung swung his legs off the bed without a word, slipping on his vest and pulling his hood up before following the handler out the door. 

His thoughts could wait.

The hallway smelt of sweat and pumped-up energy that made Wooyoung’s stomach twist uncomfortably. He hated that smell so much it was nearly overwhelming. 

The pain in his body was back now, as he walked forwards, his ribs throbbing horribly and his cuts stinging sharply. He was dead sure bruises were blooming like ink stains beneath his skin, but he wore the pain with his usual swagger as he passed other fighters and handlers on his way. 

Turning a corner, he nearly collided with someone coming the opposite way.

San.

The taller fighter stopped short, his broad shoulders stiffening as his sharp eyes locked onto Wooyoung. He sported a plaster on his nose and one on his brow. He had just seen the medic, Wooyoung concluded.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The tension crackled between them as they stood there, the faint smell of sweat and adrenaline still lingering in the air, adding to Wooyoung’s unease.

“What?” Wooyoung finally drawled, tilting his head with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Came to gloat?”

San’s expression didn’t change. He just stared, the same unshakable focus he carried in the ring seeping out of him. “You fight like you don’t care if you live or die.”

Oh…

Okay.

The words weren’t sharp, but they cut all the same.

Wooyoung’s grin faltered for a split second before snapping back into place, even cockier than before–his way to hide the emotions that he’d mastered long ago. “What’s the matter, Icy Prince? Worried about me?” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Don’t tell me I got under your skin.”

Wooyoung watched with satisfaction as San’s jaw tightened, and one eyebrow twitched faintly: he was irritated. 

“You’re reckless,” San said flatly, his tone icy but edged with something else—something Wooyoung couldn’t quite place for once. He was good at reading expressions and feelings but this time he was struggling to discern San well much to his dismay.

“And you’re boring,” Wooyoung shot back, straightening up and taking a step closer. His voice dropped into something softer, almost teasing. “Guess we balance each other out, huh?”

San’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze unwavering. He didn’t reply, but his silence spoke volumes.

Wooyoung let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he stepped past him, their arms brushing ever so slightly sending a small shiver down his spine. He paused just long enough to glance back over his shoulder, his grin now genuine, if a little wild–just like his state of mind.

“Next time, try loosening up. You might actually have some fun Sannie darling .”

San didn’t move, didn’t say a word, but Wooyoung could feel the weight of his stare lingering long after he turned the corner.

As he made his way to the medical office, Wooyoung couldn’t help but laugh to himself. San was right—he did fight like he didn’t care if he lived or died. But for the first time in a long time, it felt good that someone had finally noticed.

And that, for better or worse, made his heart race.

━◦○◦━

“You’re good to go,” the medic said, peeling off his latex gloves with a snap and tossing them into the small bin by the medical table.

Wooyoung let out a relieved breath, wasting no time slipping his vest back on. He hated medical procedures—always had. The sterile smell, the too-bright lights, the sharp sting of antiseptics. None of it ever sat well with him.

He jumped off the table with a bit too much enthusiasm, earning a sharp glare from the medic.

“Mind those wounds, would you, Nero? Or do you want to be out of commission longer than necessary?”

Wooyoung almost laughed. What a joke. “Aye aye, sir,” he said, saluting mockingly. “Don’t worry, I’ll try not to make this a habit.”

The medic rolled his eyes, clearly used to his antics. “Go eat something,” he said, his tone gruff but not entirely unkind. “You look like you’re about to keel over. Dehydration and malnutrition aren’t good looks, even for someone as cocky as you.”

Wooyoung grinned as he made his way to the door, his stomach growling loudly at the mere mention of food. “Sure thing, doc. Wouldn’t want to faint in the ring and ruin my image.” He opened the door with a flourish and stepped into the hallway.

“Oh, and Nero—”

The medic’s voice made him pause, his hand still on the doorframe. Wooyoung peeked back inside, his eyebrow quirked in curiosity.

“The ringmaster wants to see you after.”

Wooyoung froze. His blood turned to ice, and the grin slipped from his face.

“ What? ” he said, his voice almost too quiet.

The medic shrugged, already moving on to cleaning up his station. “You heard me. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Nodding shakily, Wooyoung closed the door behind him, his thoughts spinning in a hundred different directions. Why the hell would the ringmaster want to see him? Out of all the fighters, why him?

His stomach twisted, the earlier hunger replaced by a sickening churn. Food was suddenly less appealing.

The hallway felt darker than usual, the flickering overhead lights casting shadows along the cracked walls as Wooyoung trudged toward the cafeteria, his mind spinning.

The ringmaster wants to see you.

Those words echoed over and over in his head, haunting, maddening.

It wasn’t a good sign. The ringmaster didn’t call people in for casual chats, and the rare summons always came with strings attached—strings that tightened around your neck until you couldn’t breathe until you choked.

Pushing open the heavy cafeteria door, he was greeted by the sharp scent of grease and cheap food. The smell hit him like a slap, turning his stomach and curling his lip. Once, he might have ignored it, wolfed down whatever was in front of him. But that hunger had died with North, leaving behind a hollow ache in his stomach.

Even so, he grabbed a bottle of water and a sandwich, under the watchful eyes of the staff who lingered to supervise. He rarely came here. Eating was just another chore now, something to keep his body from shutting down entirely.

North would’ve hated that. He’d always made sure Wooyoung ate, even on the days when the fights left them battered and bruised and too tired to move. “Food’s fuel,” he used to say, grinning as he shoved a plate under Wooyoung’s nose. But that was before. Before North was gone. Before Wooyoung had stopped caring.

He glanced around, choosing an empty table in the far corner where he could sit with his back against the wall. The dorms weren’t much safer than the streets, and old habits died hard.

The dorms… He’d chosen to stay there after North passed away. With nowhere else to go, no better options, he’d asked for permission to reside there like so many other fighters. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A roof over his head, meals on his plate, and payment when he won a fight. That came with rules, though. Once you were in the dorms, you stayed—except for the single, precious weekly outing. No one questioned it. They simply accepted it, like everything else in this tightly controlled underground world.

He fumbled with his sandwich packet, staring at it with empty eyes, his leg bouncing under the table as unease coiled in his gut. Why him? Was it about the fight? Had he done something wrong? 

Calm down, you’re overthinking this.

His hand tightened around the bottle of water, the condensation on the bottle slick beneath his fingers, and the plastic crinkled under the pressure of the mere thought of seeing the man.

His breath hitched. The room felt too loud, the scrape of chairs and clatter of trays pressing in on him uncomfortably. The walls seemed closer, the air heavier.

His breath hitched, chest tightening.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t—

Wooyoung shot to his feet, leaving the untouched sandwich behind as he stalked toward the ringmaster’s office. His steps were fast, sharp, almost angry as he forced his way through the halls. 

Might as well get it over with.

Knocking on the door took more energy than Wooyoung cared to admit. His legs felt weak, but he forced himself to stay upright, swallowing the rising dread in his throat.

“Enter,” came the crisp voice from inside.

Wooyoung bit his lip nervously, preparing for the worst.

The door creaked as he opened it, revealing the familiar haze of smoke and the figure lounging behind the heavy oak desk. The ringmaster looked up, a vicious smile curling his lips. 

“Nero. Punctual. I like that.”

Wooyoung stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. He felt trapped with a predator—a hungry beast ready to feast upon him. He forced his face into a mask of indifference, leaning against the wall as though he didn’t feel the unease crawling up his spine.

“What do you need?” he asked, his voice steady but sharp.

He might’ve sounded rude, cold, maybe even a little too cocky, but in this place, he had long forgotten all manners—especially in front of this man. This world didn’t reward the polite or the weak—it crushed them. Kindness only got you killed, and pity? Pity was one of the worst. It was just another word for failure.

The ringmaster chuckled, low and humorless. “Still standing tall after that fight with Outlaw I see. I’ll admit, you surprised me. I didn’t think you would stand up to him. You even got a few punches and kicks in.”

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow, his tone sharp. “That’s what I get paid for, isn’t it? To put on a show.”

The ringmaster grinned mockingly. “ Oh , you’re putting on a show, all right. The crowd loves you, you know, too much, maybe. That’s the thing about being their favorite, though. The higher you climb, the harder it is to stay there.”

Wooyoung’s brow furrowed his heartbeat quickening, not quite understanding what the man wanted to say. “I didn’t realize success was a problem… Where are you going with this?”

The ringmaster shook his head, still smiling. “You’ve always been hard to manage, Nero. I let it slide for a while because you were profitable. But none step over the line, no one’s above the rules, not even you.

His tone dropped into something lower, quieter. It sent shivers through Wooyoung’s spine. “I have to admit you’ve got potential, Nero. But potential can be dangerous when it’s unchecked. And lately, you’ve been... What's the word? Ah, yes . Unpredictable.”

Wooyoung’s fingers twitched at his sides, but he forced himself to stay calm. No way was he going to start a fight with this bastard. “Unpredictable wins fights. You and I both know that’s why the crowd likes me.”

“Unpredictable also gets people killed,” the ringmaster countered, his gaze turning icy. "I’ve seen it before.”

He stood, circling his desk with slow, deliberate steps that made Wooyoung tense even more. “You remind me of someone, you know,” he said, his tone almost casual. 

“North.”

The name hit Wooyoung like a punch to the gut. His stomach twisted, and he fought to keep his expression neutral. But he could feel the tremor in his hands, the way his nerves were stretched thin, ready to snap.

The ringmaster’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with a revolting satisfaction as he watched the reaction. “He was a star, just like you. Bright, reckless, full of fire.” He sighed, his voice mocking as he waved his fingers dramatically. “The crowd adored him. But, well, you know how that story ended. Such a tragedy.”

Wooyoung’s fists clenched tight, his nails digging into his palms—he was sure he could feel blood trickling down his fingers. “You don’t know anything about North,” he growled, his voice low and venomous.

“ Oh , but don’t I?” The ringmaster stopped in front of him, his small beady eyes sharp and gleaming with something cruel. “I knew him better than anyone. And I’ll tell you what I told him: You burn bright... and you burn out.

Wooyoung’s chest tightened with anger and anxiety bubbling just beneath the surface, his breath quicking and the edge of his vision narrowing.  “What are you trying to say?”

The ringmaster barked out a laugh that grated at Wooyoung’s ears. “I’m saying don’t make the same mistake as him. Remember your place, Nero, and you might last a little longer.” 

Wooyoung’s jaw clenched. “And if I don’t?”

The ringmaster’s laughter sent a chill down his spine. “Let’s hope you will.

━◦○◦━

The walk back to his dorm felt endless. The hallway stretched like it had no end, the flickering fluorescent lights above casting harsh shadows against the stained-tagged walls. Their faint buzzing seemed to burrow into his skull, amplifying the chaos already spinning deep in his mind.

Each step grew heavier than the last. It felt like his legs were wading through quicksand, dragging him down, deeper and deeper. His breaths were shallow, uneven, and his vision started to blur at the edges.

Breathe, Wooyoung. Just breathe.

But it wasn’t working. The tightness in his chest was building, compressing his ribs painfully. Why was this happening? Why now? He’d faced the ringmaster before, walked out of that smoky office with his head high and his face blank, as if nothing could touch him.
That was who he was. That was who he had to be since North was gone. Indifferent. Strong. Unbothered.

So why did he feel like he was falling apart?

He stumbled like a drunk man in the hallway. His hand shot out, fumbling against the wall, trying to steady himself, but the cold surface was of no help. The world around him tilted slightly like the floor beneath him wasn’t solid anymore. He rounded a deserted corner and finally collapsed in a heap, his body folding in on itself as if trying to shrink from the weight pressing down on him.

Elbows dug into his knees as he hunched forward, his head bowed. The hallway was still, silent except for the faint hum of distant machinery and the irregular flicker of the lights overhead. But instead of soothing him, the quiet made everything worse.

It wasn’t calm. It wasn’t peaceful.

It was suffocating.

You burn bright... and you burn out.

The ringmaster’s words looped in his head, louder with every repetition, until they weren’t words anymore—just an endless roar of noise, like a tidal wave of fear and anxiety crashing upon him.

His chest felt impossibly tight, the constriction spreading from his ribs to his throat, choking him as he panicked further. He clawed at his jacket desperately, yanking it open, pulling it away from his skin like it was burning hot. But it didn’t help. The air still felt wrong, too thick, too heavy, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get enough of it into his lungs.

Breathebreathebreathebreathebreathebreathebreathe—

His hands started to tremble, a violent, uncontrollable shake that spread to his arms. He gripped his knees hard, trying to ground himself, but the pressure did nothing to stop the trembling. It only made it worse.

Get it together. Get it together. You’re fine. You’re fine.

But he wasn’t. Why wasn’t he? His head felt like it was spinning, the edges of the hallway warping and closing in. It was scary. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out every coherent thought, and his vision narrowed until all he could see was the cracked and dirty floor beneath him.

Why was he like this? Why couldn’t he stop?

Where was North?

He was supposed to be here. He always promised he would stay. So why wasn’t he? Why had he left?

Why did he leave me alone?

The questions were like cries of despair, pounding through his mind, relentless and overwhelming. He wanted to scream, free himself from this pain that shackled him.

He’s a liar. I hate him. I hate him for abandoning me. I hate him I hate him IhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehim—

A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped him, his body trembling as he fought to pull air into his lungs. His heartbeat felt erratic like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest.

And then, just when he thought he might lose himself completely, a hand gripped his shoulder.

Wooyoung flinched violently at the touch but the noise in his head dimmed, slightly, like a curtain lifting enough to let in the faintest thread of light. His head snapped up, his wide, unfocused eyes locking onto the figure in front of him.

The man’s expression was unreadable, but his sharp siren-like eyes were piercing. 

“Wooyoung.”

The sound of his name.

His real name.

His eyes widened, the chaos in his head faltering for the briefest of moments. He hadn’t heard someone say his name like that in years. It felt strange, raw, terrifying . Only North had said it like that. But North wasn’t here.

Wooyoung blinked, struggling to focus, and his vision finally began to clear just enough to make out the face in front of him.

San.

“I’m fine,” Wooyoung muttered hoarsely, his voice trembling, the words weak even to his own ears, making him cringe slightly. He didn’t like showing weakness in front of anyone–especially not a fighting opponent. He tried to shrug off San’s hand, but it didn’t budge.

“You’re not,” San said firmly, his tone low but calm. “Breathe.”

Wooyoung’s chest heaved as he fought against the tightness constricting his lungs. San crouched in front of him, lowering himself to Wooyoung’s level. The movement was slow and gentle as if he was afraid of startling him.

Then, with surprising gentleness, San reached out and took Wooyoung’s trembling right hand in his own. Slowly, he guided it to his chest, pressing it against the solid, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It felt grounding, comforting, almost motherly. 

“Look at me,” San said, his voice softening. It was a request, not a command.

Wooyoung hesitated, his head still spinning, but eventually, his gaze lifted. His hazy, tear-blurred eyes met San’s steady and calm ones.

“Breathe with me,” San said gently.

All of this was so foreign, so abnormal , it unsettled Wooyoung, but he ignored it.

San inhaled slowly, and deeply, and exhaled just as deliberately. Wooyoung tried to mimic him, the rhythm shaky at first but gradually steadying as San repeated the process. His fingers twitched against San’s chest as he focused on the steady beat beneath his palm.

The panic began to fade, the weight on his chest lifting little by little. Wooyoung closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of San’s measured breaths. 

“Good,” San murmured, his voice low and calm, almost soothing. “Keep going. You’re doing fine.”

Wooyoung didn’t trust himself to speak. He just kept his eyes tightly shut, focusing on the rhythm of San’s breaths and heartbeat, letting them drown out the noise and unrelenting whispers in his head. Slowly, painfully, the tightness in his chest began to ease as if the invisible ropes binding him had snapped, and the trembling in his hands lessened.

For the first time in what felt like hours, he didn’t feel like he was drowning.

When he finally opened them, San was still there, crouching in front of him, watching him with a quiet intensity.

“What are you even doing here?” Wooyoung asked, his voice hoarse but steadier now.

San shrugged, his hand finally releasing Wooyoung’s. For a moment, Wooyoung hesitated, almost reluctant to pull away. His hand fell back to his side, but the absence of San’s warmth left him feeling strangely cold like something was missing. 

It felt... good. San’s touch, his warmth…it was something Wooyoung hadn’t realized he’d craved. The realization unsettled him, and he shook it off with a sharp exhale.

What was wrong with him?

“I saw you leave the ringmaster’s office,” San said simply. “You didn’t look okay.”

Wooyoung let out a weak laugh, running a shaky hand through his bright red hair. “Didn’t realize you cared.”

San didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t smirk or smile, didn’t throw back a snarky retort. He just stared, his gaze calm and recomforting, like he could see straight through Wooyoung’s facade.

There was something in his eyes, like a flicker of understanding. It made Wooyoung’s chest tighten, though he didn’t know why.

No. San didn’t understand. How could he? He was Outlaw, the infamous Ice Prince of the Underground. He was untouchable, invincible. San could fight men twice his size and walk away without a scratch. The world turned around him.

San wouldn’t know what it felt like to spiral, to be consumed by fear and doubt.

“No one does,” Wooyoung muttered under his breath.

“I know how it feels to lose yourself.”

Wooyoung blinked, his head snapping up at the quiet, unexpected honesty in San’s voice.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He opened his mouth, searching for words, but none came.

“What do you mean?” Wooyoung finally asked, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

San exhaled, his gaze shifting to the side for a moment as if debating whether to answer or not. When his gaze returned to Wooyoung it was steady and piercing. “It’s very easy to lose yourself in this place,” he started.  “The fights, the fears, the constant worry of losing and not getting paid… The circumstances that keep you trapped here…” He paused, his expression unreadable. “It gets inside your head. Changes you.”

Wooyoung frowned, his brows knitting together. “But you seem fine. You’re always in control, always winning. How could you possibly know what it’s like to fall apart?”

San’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something—anger? Sadness?—crossing his face before he pushed it away. “You think I haven’t fallen apart?” he said, his tone sharper now, almost defensive. “You think just because I don’t show it, it’s not there? Do you think I stay here for my own amusement?

Wooyoung stared, lost for words, caught off guard by the sudden heat in San’s voice.

San leaned back slightly, running a hand through his dark hair, a faint sigh escaping him. “We all have our breaking points, Nero. Some of us just get better at hiding it.”

The sound of his fight name on San’s lips felt horribly wrong, jarring as if the man who had comforted him was gone. It was as though the brief moment of understanding between them had vanished, replaced by the cold reality of their world. “Don’t call me that,” Wooyoung said, his voice low.

San raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

Wooyoung hesitated, his throat tightening. It had been so long since anyone had called him anything else. He was fed up. The name “Nero” felt like armor, a shield that protected him from the world. But now, in this moment, it felt suffocating.

“My name is Wooyoung,” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear. “Call me Wooyoung. You already did once…why stop now?”

San tilted his head, his gaze softening just a fraction. “Wooyoung,” he said as if testing the name. It was the same as before, the name rolling on his tongue in ways that Wooyoung couldn’t explain, couldn’t describe. He wanted him to say it again. And again. To remind him of who he really was.

Say it again.

“Okay,” San paused as if he had heard Wooyung’s thoughts. He let the silence stretch for a heartbeat before he spoke again, his voice quieter. “Wooyoung.”

The sound of it made something crack inside him, and Wooyoung looked away, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Why are you even telling me all of this?” he asked, his voice rough.

San shrugged, shuffling forward to sit next to Wooyoung against the wall. “Because I know what it’s like to feel like you’re drowning. And I know it’s harder to pull yourself out when you think no one sees you.”

Wooyoung’s chest tightened, the words hitting far too close to home. He glanced up at San, searching his face for any sign of deception, but found none.

He hated it. He hated how much he wanted to believe him.

But maybe, just this once, he could let himself.

Surprisingly, San walked him back to his dorm room without a word.

He lingered by Wooyoung’s side, a quiet presence that was somehow grounding and comforting. With every unsteady step, Wooyoung felt as though his strength had been sucked out, leaving him hollow. He hated feeling weak, but for once, he was grateful for the helping hand.

The corridors were eerily silent, and they passed no one on the way. Wooyoung was thankful for that small mercy. The last thing he wanted was curious eyes and whispered rumors about what anyone might have seen.

It felt like an eternity before they reached the dorms. The silence between them was heavy, almost awkward, with only the faint echoes of their footsteps accompanying them.

Gripping the door handle, Wooyoung fumbled with the digital lock, his hands still trembling slightly under San’s quiet, watchful gaze. The lock beeped, and the door clicked open–a sound that had become familiar and comforting. Wooyoung stepped inside quickly, eager to retreat into the safety of his room.

But as he went to shut the door, he hesitated. He didn’t want to say it—God, he didn’t—but the words stuck in his throat like a stubborn weight.

“Thank you…” he muttered, keeping his head low.

San leaned forward, a hint of confusion creasing his brow. “I’m sorry?”

If it weren’t for the genuinely curious tilt of San’s head, Wooyoung would have sworn he’d done it on purpose.

“Thank you,” Wooyoung repeated, louder this time. He bit the inside of his cheek after the words left his mouth, an old habit when he felt exposed. “Thank you, San… for helping me out back there.”

For a brief moment, something flickered across San’s face—the hint of a smile. Wooyoung caught himself staring at the curve of his pink lips, and his chest tightened inexplicably.

“It’s only normal to help a fellow opponent,” San replied simply, his voice calm and composed.

Right. So that was all this was about, wasn’t it? Just professional courtesy. San didn’t really care about him. He just wanted to keep Wooyoung stable—mentally and physically—so they could continue their fights and fuel the crowd’s love for their rivalry. It was all business. Wooyoung nearly laughed at the thought, bitter and hollow. How naive could he be?

He hummed dismissively, gripping the door to close it. But as he began to push it shut, San spoke again, his voice softer this time.

“Don’t lose yourself to this place, Wooyoung. You’re stronger than that.”

Wooyoung froze, his grip on the handle slackening. For a moment, he could only gape at San, his chest tight with a mess of emotions he couldn’t quite name.

Before he could muster a response, San turned on his heel. He strode down the corridor without another glance, his steps bouncing against the walls.

Wooyoung watched him disappear around the corner, leaving him standing there, gripping the door frame as though it was the only thing keeping him upright.

He swallowed hard, the echo of San’s words lingering in his mind.

Don’t lose yourself…

He finally clicked the door shut behind him, and Wooyoung slumped against it, staring blankly at the dim room ahead.

━◦○◦━

The dull thud of fists hitting heavy bags was the first thing Wooyoung noticed as he shuffled into the training room that morning. He yawned deeply, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands before groaning in irritation. These damn aches and pains weren’t going away, were they?

Why did they have to open the training room only in the morning? Couldn’t they leave it open all day? God, these stupid rules were starting to get on his nerves.

Grabbing a pair of knuckle protectors from the shelf, Wooyoung made his way to his usual corner of the room—the one nobody dared to approach. Everyone knew better than to invade his space. Positioning himself in front of his sandbag, he started hitting it with tactical, rhythmic strikes. His muscles screamed in protest, but he forced himself to push through, determined to shake off the lingering fog from last night.

He tightened the wraps around his hands, his jaw clenched as he tried to focus. The restless sleep from the night before still clung to him, weighing down his limbs and making them feel slow and heavy.

Across the room, San was sparring with one of the older fighters. His movements were sharp, almost mechanical, every strike perfectly timed and delivered with brutal efficiency. The other fighter barely stood a chance, and it was obvious.

San hadn’t looked at him once.

It was a strange feeling, almost unnerving, after the way they’d parted the night before. Wooyoung had half-expected...what? Concern? A knowing glance? Anything that acknowledged the strange and somehow intimate moment they’d shared. But San was acting like nothing had happened.

Maybe he preferred it that way.

Wooyoung scowled and turned away, refusing to watch any longer. He didn’t have time to brood over San—not today anyway.

From the corner of his eye, he saw San dismiss his sparring partner with a curt nod, then turned toward Wooyoung, as if he had sensed his eyes on him. Their gazes locked for a moment before San started walking over.

Wooyoung rolled his shoulders, forcing his usual cocky smirk on his face. “Here to critique my form? Don’t think you’re qualified for that, icy boy. ”

San stopped a few feet away, his expression blank and emotionless, though his dark eyes seemed to take in every detail: Wooyoung’s posture, the tension in his hands, the faint exhaustion in his features.

“I don’t waste my time on lost causes,” San said simply, his voice flat but cutting.

What the actual—?

Wow. Wooyoung hadn’t expected that kind of answer.

Wooyoung scoffed, but the words had struck deeper than he cared to admit, leaving an unpleasant weight in his throat. “Good. I don’t need advice from someone who fights like a fucking machine anyway.”

He braced himself for a smirk, a chuckle—some kind of annoying retort—but San’s expression didn’t waver. Stoic. Distant. Like he truly didn’t care.

He probably doesn’t , a voice whispered in Wooyoung’s mind.

And it was right, wasn’t it? Wooyoung couldn’t afford to make friends here. This place wasn’t meant for that kind of weakness. It was for survival, for proving you could stand alone. He’d had somebody once, and look where that had gotten him. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

San folded his arms across his chest, watching Wooyoung with an intensity that made him want to scurry away.

“What?” Wooyoung snapped, trying to mask his unease.

San didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked briefly to Wooyoung’s hands, clenched tight at his sides, before meeting his eyes again.

“You’re slow today,” San said flatly, unbothered.

“I’m fine,” Wooyoung shot back, too quickly. He turned to the bag in front of him, throwing a few sharp punches to prove his point. The strikes landed, but they lacked the usual fire behind them. He knew it.

San didn’t say anything, but the weight of his stare was enough.

“What’s your problem?” Wooyoung asked, rounding on him. His frustration bubbled over, spilling out as he pointed an accusing finger at the man before him. “You come over here, barely say a word, and then act like you know everything.”

San shrugged, his silence somehow more infuriating than any retort.

Wooyoung stepped closer, his voice rising just a bit. “You think you’re better than everyone just because you keep your mouth shut and fight like you’re some kind of god? Newsflash, San, nobody cares.”

Cold and emotionless eyes were his only answer.

“Are you done?” San asked, his tone so calm it felt like a slap.

Wooyoung stared at him, caught off guard by the simplicity of the question.

This was not the same man who had steadied him last night. Not even close.

San tilted his head slightly, his cold gaze boring into Wooyoung as if dissecting him piece by piece. “You really think you matter here?” he said, his voice low and cutting. “That anyone cares about your little tantrums?”

Wooyoung blinked, taken aback by the venom in the words.

“I’ve seen people like you come and go,” San continued, his tone devoid of emotion. “Loud. Flashy. Desperate for attention. You burn bright, but it doesn’t last. This place chews you up and spits you out, and no one even remembers your name. Because nobody even cares.”

You burn bright... and you burn out.

You burn bright, but it doesn’t last.

The words replayed in Wooyoung’s head, a twisted reminder of the day before. His chest tightened painfully as a familiar, suffocating feeling clawed its way into his stomach. Still, he forced a scoff, hiding it behind a smirk. “Big talk coming from someone like you.”

San stepped closer, his expression hardening. “You think this is a game, Nero ? That you can boss your way anywhere because you have a big mouth and act like a reckless show-off?”

Wooyoung’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “And what, you think you’re better than me? Because you’re this ‘chill guy’ who doesn’t blink and acts like he’s already dead inside? You have no heart, no soul. You’re no better than dead, Outlaw.”

San’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing. Something flickered in his cold eyes but it was gone before Wooyoung could name it.

“Better to be like that than someone who lets their emotions get them killed,” San said coldly. “People like you are useless. You think anyone here is going to watch your back when you can’t even keep it together?”

The words hit harder than any punch.

“Last night…” Wooyoung started, but San cut him off, his voice sharp and mocking.

“Last night was a mistake.”

“It didn’t seem like it,” Wooyoung shot back, his stomach twisting with dread and nausea. He felt sick. This wasn’t San—at least, not the San from the night before.

“What happened last night doesn’t mean anything. I didn’t help you because I care. I helped you because someone like you falling apart? It’s pathetic.”

Wooyoung flinched as if he’d been struck. “Shut up,” he muttered, gaze fixed down at his feet.

But San didn’t stop. If anything, he pressed harder, as if seeing Wooyoung crumble gave him a sense of cruel satisfaction.

“You’re here to fight, not fall apart in a dirty hallway. If you can’t handle that, maybe you don’t belong here.”

“You’re a coward,” Wooyoung whispered, his voice barely audible. “You hide your emotions like they can protect you. You’re just fucking scared. You’re a coward.”

San let out a cold, humorless laugh—a sound that sent a chill down Wooyoung’s spine. It reminded him too much of the ringmaster’s laugh. He was really about to be sick.

Wooyoung could still feel the ghost of San’s hand on his the night before, his guiding whispers, his kind words guiding him out of the storm brewing in his mind. It had felt real, solid, in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. And now...this?

“I’m not the one clinging to a fantasy,” San sneered. “Thinking that people here can be trusted, thinking that anyone cares. You’re setting yourself up to fail.”

Wooyoung’s hands trembled as they curled into fists at his sides. His eyes burned, but he refused to let the tears fall.

San’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “I’m not your friend, Nero,”. “Don’t mistake a moment of weakness for something it wasn’t. You want to survive here? Then stop waiting for someone to save you.”

San turned, stepping away without another glance. But just before he left, he paused, his back to Wooyoung. "Whatever pitiful fight you’re trying to win, don’t expect me to save you next time."

Wooyoung stood frozen as he watched San turn back to his training like nothing had occurred, his chest heaving with a mix of anger, hurt, and confusion. He wanted to scream, to throw something, to wipe the smug, indifferent expression off San’s face.

Wooyoung ripped off his knuckle protection and threw them to the ground harshly. His breathing was uneven, his chest tightening with the weight of everything San had said. He needed to leave, to get out of this suffocating space. He needed to escape back to the shadows of his dorm, where he could drown in his doubts and fears without anyone watching. 

But just as he took a step toward the doorway, the crackle of the intercom stopped him cold. The sound pierced the air, silencing all fights.

Every head turned toward the speaker as the robotic voice rang out, sharp and emotionless.

“Victor and Nero , report to the arena tonight. I repeat: Victor and Nero, report to the arena tonight.”

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Wooyoung stood frozen, confusion and disbelief painted across his face. Around him, the other fighters began to murmur and whisper between themselves.

No.

This has to be a mistake.

No fighter was ever called to the arena two days in a row. It was a hard-and-fast rule that had been established. Fighting every day wasn’t just grueling—it was a death sentence. The matches were designed to push combatants to their limits, and even the strongest couldn’t endure back-to-back fights without breaking.

So why had his name been announced?

Dread seeped into his veins. The unease curled in his stomach, twisting tighter with every passing second. He could feel the weight of the stares around him, the curious and pitying glances of the other fighters as they tried to make sense of what they’d just heard.

Wooyoung swallowed hard, forcing his expression into a mask of defiance. He refused to let them see his fear. Straightening his spine, he lifted his chin and scanned the room with sharp eyes, daring anyone to comment.

But as his gaze swept across the fighters, it landed on San.

San was standing there. He wasn’t talking or whispering like the others. He was staring at Wooyoung, his dark eyes locked onto him with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

For a fleeting moment, Wooyoung thought he saw something in San’s dark gaze that wasn’t the cold indifference or smug satisfaction that he had worn only a few minutes ago. It wasn’t anger, either. No, it was something far more confusing.

Fear.

The realization made Wooyoung’s stomach churn. Why would San—of all people—look at him like that? Especially after all he had just said to him. He was just a big mouth and a reckless show-off after all. So why? Why did San look at him with those scared eyes as if he’d just heard the most horrendous news? If anything he should be happy.

Wooyoung quickly turned away, his heart pounding as he stormed out and into the corridor. He wouldn’t let himself dwell on it. He couldn’t. Whatever San was on, it didn’t matter.

He kept his head high as if walking away from the weight of everyone’s stares could make it disappear. But as he strode forward into the corridors toward his room, the image of San’s wide, fearful eyes stayed with him, and an unpleasant pain flowered in his chest.

He wasn’t going to make it tonight, was he?