For the first three minutes, Viktor didn't strike. He danced. He used the brothers' momentum against each other, staying on the periphery, making the Five trip over their own shadows. He was "buying time," letting the adrenaline dump wear them out.
The Grappler lunged, trying to take the fight to the floor, but Viktor caught him in a clinch, using the man as a human shield against the brothers' strikes. With a sharp twist, he sent the Grappler into the corner post. For the first three minutes, Viktor didn't strike
The neon sign above the basement entrance flickered, casting a rhythmic red glow over the wet pavement. Inside, the air smelled of stale ozone and expensive tobacco. This was the "Red Circle," a high-stakes underground arena where disputes were settled not by lawyers, but by stamina. He was "buying time," letting the adrenaline dump
Now it was personal. The brothers charged together, a wall of muscle. Viktor dropped low, swept the legs of the first, and used the falling body as a stepping stone to launch a flying knee into the second. The neon sign above the basement entrance flickered,
Finally, there was only The Ghost. He was fresh, having waited for his moment. He pulled a concealed blade—a violation of the Red Circle rules. The crowd gasped, but the referee, paid off by the house, looked away.
The Ghost lunged. Viktor didn't retreat; he met the blade halfway. He caught the attacker’s wrist in a lock that sounded like dry wood snapping. The knife clattered to the floor.