Morning didn't break.
It crept.
A thin, nervous light slipped between the blinds of Prince's flat, the kind of light that felt like it was checking the room first before committing to the day. Prince sat in the kitchen with a towel around his shoulders, ice pressed to his knuckles. They throbbed with a dull reminder of yesterday's violence the type that didn't hit skin but rattled bone.
There were fights inside gyms.
There were fights inside rings.
And then there were fights inside worlds.
He'd just stepped into the last one.
Steam curled from the tea mug on the table. Not coffee. Tea. Something simple. Something grounding. His mother would've approved.
The flat was quiet, except for the slow tick of the wall clock. It sounded louder today. Heavier. Almost like a countdown.
Prince closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled slow, steady, controlled.
Last night replayed in flashes:
the warehouse,
the rival's voice,
the knife glinting in the dark,
the warning
the promise.
He pressed the ice harder to his knuckles.
Pressure.
He knew that language well.
His phone buzzed.
He reached for it habit, instinct checking the ID before answering.
Morgan.
Prince didn't speak first.
"You alive?" Morgan's voice was rough, shot through with sleep and worry.
Prince hesitated. "I'm good."
"You sound like someone who's lying."
"Then I sound normal."
A sigh on the other end. "Get your ass to the gym. Now."
The call ended.
Prince didn't argue.
Didn't waste a second.
He moved.
The Hellcat cut through the streets like a predator returning to its territory. London was already alive buses groaning, horns echoing, street vendors opening shutters. Normal life, loud and oblivious. Prince envied that for half a second.
When he reached the gym, the front doors were open. Bright. Too bright.
And people.
Reporters.
A crowd gathered like vultures around a fresh carcass. Cameras clicking. Microphones shoved forward. Voices overlapping.
"Prince! Prince!"
"Is it true you're pulling out?"
"Rumor says Ruiz's camp filed a complaint what happened?"
"Were you attacked last night?"
"Is Navarro your sponsor now?"
"Are you involved with underground networks?"
"Prince, is your life in danger?"
Prince didn't slow.
Didn't look.
Didn't breathe their questions in.
He pushed through them like a shadow slipping through bodies. They followed him up the steps, shouting louder, hungry for a crumb of anything.
Morgan shoved open the gym door from inside, face red with anger.
"BACK UP!" he barked, voice booming enough to shake the bricks. "HE'S NOT TALKING!"
He dragged Prince in by the arm and slammed the door behind them. The gym fell into its familiar silence weights clinking, gloves slapping bags, the smell of sweat thick and honest.
Prince set his bag down. "What's going on?"
Morgan didn't answer immediately. He walked to his office window and yanked the blinds shut. When he finally turned back, his eyes were ice.
"You tell me."
Prince's jaw tightened. "I didn't bring them."
Morgan stepped closer. Not angry but afraid for him. "Someone fed them stories. Real stories. Things only people close to the underground know."
Prince said nothing.
Morgan folded his arms. "You want to tell me why they're saying your life's in danger? Why Ruiz's manager called this morning screaming that you're part of some shadow network?"
Prince inhaled slowly. "Someone's playing games."
Morgan's voice lowered. "With who?"
Prince met his eyes. "With me."
Morgan cursed under his breath. He paced. Back and forth. His knee the old injury made a faint clicking sound every few steps.
"You're not ready for this," he muttered. "Not this level of attention. Not this level of danger."
Prince leaned against the ring ropes. "I didn't ask for it."
Morgan snapped, "That doesn't matter! The minute they smell chaos, they feast. You know that."
Prince's shoulders rose and fell, controlled. "I can handle chaos."
Morgan stopped pacing. He stared at Prince with an unreadable expression. "Maybe you can. But can everyone around you?"
That landed.
Hard.
Prince's fists tightened, knuckles pulsing beneath the ice burns.
Morgan continued, quieter, heavier: "If you step into that arena with Ruiz under this much heat, your head won't be in the fight. And a distracted fighter…" He let the sentence die.
Prince finished it anyway. "Dies."
Morgan nodded once. Like a man confirming the weather.
Silence thickened between them. Tense. Heavy. Honest.
Then Morgan spoke again:
"You're telling me everything. Right now."
Prince took a breath.
Then he told him.
Not every detail.
But enough.
The warehouse. The rival. Navarro. The tied-up man. The knife. The warning. The fact that two shadows in the city wanted him on their side or under their boot.
Morgan listened without interruption. With each word, his jaw hardened, his eyes darkened, his fists clenched.
When Prince finished, Morgan pressed both palms against the desk, leaning forward like he needed the world to hold him up.
"Jesus Christ… Prince…" He exhaled. "You're stuck between two kings."
Prince didn't deny it.
Morgan straightened slowly. His voice was iron.
"Then you're learning something today. Something most fighters never understand."
Prince waited.
Morgan's eyes locked onto his.
"Kings don't protect you. Kings don't shield you. Kings don't care about your crown."
A pause.
"Kings only care about their throne."
Prince absorbed the words like a punch that didn't bruise skin but bruised truth.
He stepped into the main gym. Fighters were already pretending not to stare at him, hitting bags harder than usual, throwing glances that weren't subtle. Word had spread. Chaos made rooms louder.
Prince wrapped his hands. Slowly. Methodically. Each pull of the cloth grounded him. Each fold built a wall around whatever storm was outside.
He stepped to the heavy bag. Touched it with the back of his hand. Felt the texture, the resistance.
Then he hit it.
Not for power.
For precision.
Morgan walked behind him, watching.
"Pressure," he said quietly, "is a language. You either learn to speak it… or it crushes you."
Prince hit the bag again.
Harder.
The gym fell silent, one punch at a time.
He wasn't fighting Ruiz today.
He wasn't fighting Navarro.
He wasn't fighting the rival in shadows.
He was fighting the part of himself that wanted to run or freeze or break.
He hit the bag again.
And again.
And again.
His breath steadied.
His heartbeat synced.
His world narrowed into something sharp and simple.
Punch.
Recover.
Breathe.
Punch again.
Blood thundered in his ears like war drums.
Morgan stepped beside him. "You're not losing this fight."
Prince didn't answer.
Morgan continued: "But you need to understand something before you walk into the ring."
Prince paused mid-swing.
Morgan's eyes were steel.
"This isn't about belts anymore."
Prince swallowed the truth.
Morgan added, voice softer: "This is survival now."
The words settled deep in Prince's bones.
Survival.
The thing his mother had asked of him.
The thing he'd always pretended was too small a goal.
The thing he now realized was the foundation of every dream he'd ever had.
He hit the bag one last time
a punch that shook the chain,
that echoed across the gym,
that made every fighter turn.
Prince lowered his fists.
His voice came low.
"I'm not dying for anyone's throne."
Morgan's grin was grim but proud. "Good. Then let's make sure you win the right war."
As Prince unwrapped his hands, the gym's front door banged open.
One fighter rushed in, breathless.
"Prince bro… you need to see this."
He pointed at the TV mounted in the corner.
Prince and Morgan turned.
The screen displayed a breaking news banner.
Prince's face filled the frame.
Then Ruiz's.
Then Navarro's.
And then
A new face.
The rival.
Blurred. Shadowed. But recognizable.
A voiceover crackled:
" sources are now suggesting a connection between rising light heavyweight star Prince 'The Sovereign' Adu and two powerful underground syndicates…"
Prince's blood ran cold.
His name wasn't part of the fight anymore.
His name was part of the war.
And Ruiz?
The fight?
The arena?
They were becoming the least dangerous things in his life.
Prince stepped closer to the TV. The room held its breath.
Pressure was no longer something he fought through.
Pressure had become the battlefield.