Hashina stopped in front of the room.
A man dressed in black stood blocking the entrance. He was so tall that his body filled the doorway behind him. Broad shoulders, straight back, muscles tense beneath the dark fabric of his shirt. One look was enough for Hashina to know — this wasn't someone easy to get past.
The man raised his arm to stop Hashina as he tried to step forward. His voice came out cold, sharp — like a warning.
Hashina instinctively took a small step back. The pressure coming from the man was overwhelming — enough to make even someone like Hashina, who had once ruled the top, hesitate.
Saito stepped up, pulling a red card from his pocket.
But the man didn't move. He had no intention of letting them through.
"Lately we've caught people using fake cards to get into the VIP rooms," he said flatly.
"Now we only accept passcodes."
Saito's brows furrowed, his sharp voice rising in irritation.
"Since when? Your boss didn't tell me anything about that."
Hashina could feel the anger rising in Saito's tone — short, cracking like glass.
Behind them, the roars from the arena thundered like crashing waves — a crowd hungry for blood. It was the kind of sound that got into your veins, the kind that made your pulse race even if you didn't want it to.
Through that noise, Hashina could still hear the deep voice of the guard clearly:"No passcode, no entry."
Saito clicked his tongue, sighing sharply before snapping:
"Then call your boss out here."
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
The man's voice suddenly turned harsh, every word forced through gritted teeth. His eyes locked on Saito — fierce and unblinking, like a predator staring down its prey.
If this weren't the fight club, Hashina wasn't sure Saito would even make it out alive after provoking this man.
Saito pulled out his phone, calling again and again. No one answered. With every failed attempt, his face grew redder, breath shorter, voice trembling between fury and humiliation.
Finally, unable to hold back, he shouted:
"HEY! HOW LONG ARE YOU GONNA MAKE ME WAIT, OLD MAN?!"
THUMP.
The man threw a straight punch into Saito's stomach.
Saito dropped to his knees, the scream dying halfway in his throat.
The punch was so fast that even Hashina — who had fought through hundreds of fiery boxing matches — could only catch a blur of movement.
Maybe his eyes weren't sharp enough anymore, or maybe… the man before him was simply out of his league — a true master.
For a moment, silence filled the hallway. The crowd's cheers blurred into white noise. All that remained was the echo of Saito's wheezing breath and the metallic scent of sweat in the air.
Then, the door behind them opened.
A man stepped out.
Long hair brushed against his shoulders, glasses perched neatly on his nose, a cigar burning lazily between his lips.
Unlike the others in their suits, he wore a loose blue beach shirt, unbuttoned enough to reveal a sculpted chest and abs beneath. The smoke from his cigar curled upward, catching the cold light like thin threads of silver.
He looked down at Saito, who was still clutching his stomach, then lifted his gaze toward Hashina.
When their eyes met, Hashina felt something twist inside him — a strange familiarity, a flash of memory that vanished before he could grasp it. A voice from the past, maybe. A face seen once in a shadow.
But the feeling slipped away, like smoke dissolving into the air.
Finally, the man spoke, his tone smooth but edged with steel.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Jay, the owner of this place. You're Hashina, right?"
Hashina hesitated. The man was too calm, too deliberate — every gesture calculated, every word perfectly placed. That made him dangerous.
After a brief pause, he replied:
"Yeah. I'm Hashina."
Jay's lips curled into a sly smile. "Then, shall we talk inside? It's a little too noisy out here."
He took the cigar from his mouth, flicking the ash onto the floor — as if the chaos outside meant nothing to him.
Hashina didn't answer right away. His instincts were whispering again, the same warning that had saved him countless times before. But the man in front of him — the way he carried himself, the casual arrogance — it all said one thing: power.
He glanced down at Saito, still groaning on the floor, then said:
"Fine. But we're bringing Saito in."
Jay's smile faded. His eyes shifted toward Saito — sharp, assessing, like an owner inspecting a disobedient pet. He said nothing, just nodded to the guard.
The man in black stepped forward, lifted Saito effortlessly, and carried him into the room as if he weighed nothing.
As the door swung shut, its echo rolled through the room — deep, final, like a heartbeat being crushed inside a chest.
Inside, the light dimmed to a golden hue, soft but heavy. The air thickened with the scent of cigars and aged whiskey, swirling together like a fog that clung to the skin.
Hashina stepped in slowly, feeling dozens of eyes shift toward him. Men in suits whispered under their breath. A few smiled faintly — the kind of smile that hid knives behind it.
The door sealed shut, and with it, the outside world vanished completely.
He moved toward the sofa near the center — dark leather, cold to the touch — beside a table made of polished stone that gleamed under the low light.
Jay sank into the seat opposite him, legs crossed, one hand resting lazily on the armrest. He exhaled a long stream of smoke, eyes half-lidded, lips curving again into that faint, knowing smile.
"Welcome to Paradise," he said.
The words lingered in the air — soft, deliberate, carrying something that felt less like a greeting… and more like a warning.