The city's dawn arrived disguised muted, hushed, shy behind a veil of fog that clung to the skyline like a shroud. The streets glimmered faintly as if the rain from last night had only half decided to leave, settling instead into thin layers that mirrored pale streetlights and tired clouds. Prince stood at the window of his flat, watching the first weak strands of morning light bend across the rooftops.
He hadn't slept.
The night's presence still lingered in him engine roars echoing through his ribs, the shadowy choreography of Navarro's scouts replaying behind his eyes. The Hellcat and Trackhawk were parked downstairs in their usual spots, but this morning they felt different. Not like machines, not like extensions of him, but like sentinels waiting for a threat no one could name yet.
Prince inhaled deeply. The city's cold air seeped through the small cracks around the window frame, brushing against his skin like the whisper of a ghost. He closed his eyes and listened to the soft hum of distant traffic, to the slow rhythm of his heart, to the faint static in the air that always came before a storm.
Danger had a frequency. He was learning to hear it.
He moved away from the window, muscles stiff, shoulders heavy. The scent of old sweat and leather still clung to his gloves from the early-morning shadowboxing session he'd done to keep himself from unraveling. Routine kept him anchored. Movement kept him sane. And now, more than ever, he needed that.
In the kitchen, he drank water straight from the bottle, staring at the condensation trailing down its sides. Every detail mattered now. Every drip, every breath, every flicker of light on the wall. Navarro had entered his life like a glitch in the system, and Prince knew that small anomalies could reveal bigger threats.
On the counter lay a single envelope.
White. Plain. Unmarked.
It hadn't been there last night. Or earlier this morning. Prince wasn't careless he noticed everything. Someone had entered the building quietly, precisely, the way shadows slip through cracks in reality.
His jaw tightened.
He approached the envelope slowly, each step deliberate. The world seemed to narrow around him until the only thing that existed was the white rectangle on dark granite. When he finally picked it up, the paper crackled faintly a delicate sound, but in the hush of the flat, it felt deafening.
Inside was a single photo.
Not of Prince.
But of his gym. Soho Boxing Club. Taken from across the street, slightly angled, capturing the front entrance and the narrow alley beside it. The timestamp on the corner was from last night around the time he'd driven the Hellcat through the city's underbelly.
The message was silent, but clear.
We can reach your home.
We can reach your gym.
We can reach your world.
Prince felt something potent stir beneath his ribs not fear, not exactly, but a cold, simmering rage that tightened every muscle in his body.
He placed the photo on the table, gloved hands resting on either side of it. His breath slowed. His heartbeat steadied. A storm gathering itself, deciding where to strike.
He picked up the gloves.
Not to fight.
To focus.
He punched the air slow, controlled, precise. Movements like blades slicing invisible threads. His body flowed from jab to cross to hook to pivot, each motion sharper than the last. Sweat slicked his brow. His chest expanded with each breath, trying to cage the fire burning beneath.
Images flashed behind his eyes Navarro's watchers on motorcycles, the shadow in the alley, the cars blocking him in the rain, the unspoken warning in the stranger's voice.
They were pushing him.
Pressuring him.
Trying to see how far they could go before he broke.
Prince wiped sweat from his face. He didn't break. Not in the ring. Not in life. And certainly not here, on the streets that had become part of his pulse.
The flat felt too small.
He grabbed his hoodie and keys, descended the stairs, and stepped into the morning air.
The Hellcat SRT sat like a beast waking from sleep matte black paint glistening under the faint fog, cold engine rumbling when he tapped the hood twice. It was more than a car; it was armor, momentum, a steel heartbeat that mirrored his own.
Prince slid in, strapped himself in, and let the engine growl to life. The sound vibrated through the street, sending ripples through the fog as if the city itself flinched.
He drove.
Not fast, not reckless smooth, deliberate. The Hellcat's tires whispered along slick asphalt, weaving through empty streets where early commuters moved like ghosts.
As he crossed the bridge toward the river, London began to wake around him vendors pulling up shutters, buses hissing to life, cyclists gliding past with heads tucked down. It was a world that believed in routines and safety, blind to the undercurrent of danger that threaded itself silently beneath the surface.
The gym stood quiet when he arrived. The alley beside it was empty, but the air carried an unusual stillness too still, too quiet. Prince stepped out of the Hellcat and scanned the area. Every brick, every shadow, every patch of damp pavement. His senses sharpened, the way they did before he stepped into a ring.
Inside, the gym lights flickered before fully illuminating the space. Heavy bags hung like waiting bodies. The ring sat in the center, patient and imposing. The air smelled of sweat, dust, and the ghosts of a thousand battles fought under its roof.
Prince walked slowly, gloved hands brushing the ropes, the canvas beneath his boots whispering faintly with each step. This place was sanctuary, battlefield, home. He wouldn't let Navarro touch it.
He paused when he reached the far corner.
A single white card lay on the canvas.
He picked it up.
No message. No signature. Just a symbol a black circle with a line through it. Clean, minimalist, intentional. The kind of symbol that meant everything and nothing at once.
Prince pressed it between his fingers.
Navarro was escalating.
Not with violence.
Not yet.
But with presence.
Influence.
Control.
It was a different kind of fight a psychological match where every move was a test, every sign a threat, every silence a weapon.
He felt the gym tilt around him slightly as if gravity was shifting, realigning itself around the tension in his chest.
He moved into the ring.
He didn't wrap his hands. Didn't warm up. He simply stood in the center, letting the quiet press against him, letting the weight of the moment settle.
Fighting in the ring was clean, honest. You saw your opponent. You read their body. You learned their thoughts from the tilt of a shoulder, the twitch of a muscle, the depth of their breath.
This new battlefield was different.
Unseen eyes.
Hidden moves.
Silent threats.
The kind of war fought in shadows rather than under lights.
Prince's chest tightened not from fear, but from anticipation. Every instinct told him that Navarro wasn't challenging him to break.
He was challenging him to evolve.
Prince left the ring and stood at the gym's entrance, watching the street outside. Early sunlight had finally begun to pierce the fog, casting long, sharp beams across the pavement. Cars whispered by. People walked quickly, huddled in coats, unaware that a silent power struggle simmered beneath their feet.
Prince knew one thing for certain:
Navarro wasn't sending threats to scare him.
He was sending invitations.
Testing boundaries.
Pushing him toward something bigger something he hadn't yet grasped.
The city hummed. A low, electric tension.
Prince stepped outside again, hood pulled low, eyes sharp. His breath fogged in the cold air. The Hellcat waited patiently, engine cooling, metal ticking faintly.
He slid back inside.
But before he started the engine, he felt it someone watching.
Not close. Not obvious. But present.
Prince didn't turn his head. Didn't search for a face. He simply stared ahead, letting the weight of that unseen gaze settle.
He wasn't being hunted.
He wasn't being cornered.
He was being measured.
He tapped the steering wheel twice, the same rhythm he used to steady himself before a fight.
Then he started the engine.
The Hellcat roared loud, defiant, alive.
Prince pulled out of the alley, tires slicing through shallow puddles. The street opened ahead of him, stretching into fog, into light, into uncertainty.
He wasn't running from Navarro.
He was going to find him.
And when he did, the real war not of fists, not of belts, but of wills, power, and dominance would begin.
A new battlefield.
A new crown.
A new Sovereign rising.
Prince accelerated. The city blurred. Shadows shifted. The game sharpened.
The ghost in the grid was watching.
And Prince was coming.