The rain had thinned into a fine drizzle by the time Arora left the diner. Neon signs reflected across the wet asphalt, staining the puddles in streaks of crimson, cobalt, and gold. A cold wind cut through the alleyways, carrying the damp scent of exhaust and rain.
Miso trailed a few paces behind, shooting quiet, inquisitive glances at her leader. Arora hadn't uttered a single word since they stepped back onto the street.
"Leader," Miso offered carefully, "should I call Edwin to pick us up?"
"No."
"Should I walk you back?"
"No."
Miso sighed, tilting her head. "Are you angry?"
That finally earned her a sharp side-eye. "Go home, Miso."
Miso raised her hands in defeat. "Okay, okay. I'm vanishing."
Within moments, her footsteps faded into the night.
Arora walked on alone, the heels of her boots rhythmic against the pavement. Everything about the night should have felt routine, yet her mind refused to settle. The same image kept resurfacing—sunlight hair, bright blue eyes, and that absurdly wide, disarming smile.
She clicked her tongue, thoroughly annoyed with herself. What is wrong with that guy?
He had looked straight at her without a trace of hesitation or fear. Not as a gang leader. Not as a killer. Just as a woman sitting alone at a diner table. She had spent two years building an impenetrable reputation, yet a single nameless stranger had managed to breach her focus.
Without consciously planning her route, her feet carried her toward her usual sanctuary: an old, unpretentious gym tucked between an auto repair shop and an empty warehouse. A faded neon sign flickered lazily above the heavy metal door.
Inside, the air smelled of rubber mats, chalk, and iron. Most of the regulars had long since cleared out. Near the boxing ring, Kai—a battle-scarred former fighter who managed the floor—looked up from wiping down a vinyl bench and let out a dry laugh.
"That bad?" he asked.
Arora unbuttoned her damp coat and tossed it onto a bench. "Don't start, Kai."
"One of those nights, huh?" He grabbed two sets of hand wraps.
"Get in the ring," she commanded, pulling on a pair of leather gloves.
Kai groaned dramatically, rubbing his lower back. "Arora, have mercy. I'm getting old."
"Then consider it physical therapy."
"Therapy?" he muttered, reluctantly stepping through the ropes. "This is basic assault."
A faint, fleeting smirk touched the corner of her lips.
The sparring session lasted under ten minutes, and Kai never stood a real chance. Arora moved with fluid, lethal precision, every strike sharp and deliberate. She wasn't fighting Kai; she was purging her own head—burning away the distraction, the confusion, and the lingering irritation from the diner.
By the time she stepped back, Kai was leaning heavily against the turnbuckle, catching his breath. "Whatever pissed you off," he wheezed, "I pray for its soul."
Arora unlaced her gloves. "I'm fine."
Kai stared at her, then broke into a raspy laugh. "Sure you are."
She rolled her eyes and walked over to the water station. The cold drink settled her racing pulse, restoring her composure.
Then the gym's heavy front door creaked open.
It was a small sound, but her senses flared instantly. She glanced toward the entrance—and froze.
Golden hair. Blue eyes.
The same idiot.
Arora blinked, genuinely stunned. "What are you doing here?"
Jack stopped mid-step, his eyes widening in equal surprise. "Oh. It's you!"
She folded her arms, her gaze narrowing. "Answer the question."
"I work out here sometimes," he said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck before gesturing toward the ring. "I... caught the end of your sparring."
Her brow furrowed. "You were watching?"
"A little."
"A little?"
Jack laughed sheepishly, turning slightly pink. "Okay, fine. A lot. You were incredible."
The sheer honesty caught her off guard. Most men in her world lied by default; this boy didn't seem to have a guarded bone in his body.
"That's a terrible line," Arora said coldly.
"It wasn't a line!" he protested, his ears flushes bright red. "I meant it!"
To hide the slight twitch of a smile threatening her lips, she reached for her water. Before she could drink, Jack stepped forward and extended a frost-dusted aluminum can.
"Here. You looked like you could use something cold."
She looked down at the can of Diet Coke in his hand. "Why?"
"You fought hard," he said simply, as if offering a drink to a dangerous gang boss was the most natural thing in the world.
Slowly, she took the can. Their fingers brushed for a fraction of a second—a brief spark of warmth that lingered far longer than it should have.
Jack seemed completely oblivious to her internal friction. "Can I at least know your name this time?"
"No."
His face fell into an exaggerated pout. "Why not?"
"Because I said so."
"What kind of answer is that?"
"The final kind."
Jack studied her stern face for a moment before letting out a dramatic sigh. "Then what am I supposed to call you?"
The question hung in the air. For a split second, a buried memory flickered in her mind—a quiet recollection of her father's voice calling her Baby long before she ever picked up a blade. The word hovered at the edge of her thoughts, and before her logic could filter it, a sarcastic remark slipped off her tongue.
"Call me 'Baby' if you want your jaw broken."
Jack blinked, processing the words. Then a slow, warm grin spread across his face—not mocking, not sleazy, just genuinely amused.
"Got it," he murmured softly. "Gotta admit, 'Baby'... not what I expected, but I like a challenge."
Arora immediately regretted opening her mouth. This is why I don't talk to civilians.
"Forget I said anything."
"Too late," he chuckled, leaning against the equipment rack. "It suits you. Iron on the outside, soft name."
"You're an idiot."
"Probably."
Neither of them moved. Around them, the faint hum of gym lights and distant iron plates clanking continued, yet the space between them felt strangely isolated from the rest of the world.
Eventually, Jack checked his phone. "I should probably get going—early class tomorrow."
"Good."
"You're really mean, Baby."
"Stop saying that."
"What? The name?"
"The terrible flirting."
Jack laughed out loud, a clear, ringing sound that made Arora stare despite herself. People usually approached her seeking something—power, mercy, protection, or money. This boy seemed content just standing in her orbit, asking for nothing at all.
And that made him far more dangerous than anyone she had ever fought.
After the door slammed shut behind him, the gym felt oddly empty. Kai ambled over, tossing a white towel around his neck.
"Friend of yours?"
"No."
"Fascinating."
Arora popped open the Diet Coke, the cold carbonation biting her throat.
Kai smirked, watching her closely. "You sure about that?"
Arora stared at the empty doorway, clicked her tongue, and forced her gaze away. "He's just some clueless idiot."
Yet as she took another sip, his wide, golden smile flashed through her mind again—ruining what was left of her night.
To Be Continued...