The storm arrived before dawn.
Not a weather storm London saved those for weekends but the kind that crept under doorways and through radio static, wearing the shape of whispers. Prince felt it the moment he opened his eyes. The air in his flat was too still, too heavy. The usual hum of traffic below his window was softer, muffled, like the city was holding a secret in its teeth.
He rolled out of bed, muscles tight from yesterday's grind, mind still pulsing with Navarro's warning. He splashed cold water on his face and looked into the bathroom mirror. His reflection stared back with the same intensity, but something beneath it had shifted. A man who knew he wasn't shadowboxing anymore.
He was in the war.
And London had begun to act like it.
When he stepped outside, the sky looked like bruised concrete. The streets gleamed with moisture even though it hadn't rained. Prince walked with his hood up, blending into the thinning morning crowds. Car horns, shouting vendors, double-decker buses everything sounded distant.
On the corner two blocks from his flat, people stood clustered around a smashed shop window. Shards of glass sparkled on the pavement like frozen lightning. Inside, the shelves had been torn open, products scattered. The owner stood near the entrance shaking his head.
Prince kept walking, but the sight lodged itself in his mind.
Random violence in this part of town wasn't new.
But the pattern was new sharp, targeted, precise.
A message.
He reached the café he always stopped by for morning carbs. The door was locked. A handwritten sign taped to the glass read:
Closed for the day due to incident.
No explanation. No details.
Prince's jaw tightened.
Another message.
He wasn't sure if they were aimed at him… or if he was just walking through someone else's battlefield.
At the end of the street, a black Jeep Trackhawk rolled slowly past the curb windows tinted, engine rumbling with a familiar growl. The kind Prince loved. The kind he always dreamed of owning when he made it big. But this one didn't feel like a dream. It felt like a set of eyes.
The Trackhawk slowed when passing him.
Paused.
Then kept going.
Not Navarro's people. Wrong rhythm. Wrong energy. Navarro's men were bold but efficient. These were watchers.
Prince continued walking without looking back.
The closer he got to the gym, the more the city changed. Street by street, the atmosphere sharpened louder voices, faster footsteps, people checking behind themselves. Even pigeons fluttered with a frantic edge, scattering at every disturbance. Something invisible rippled through the neighborhood, and everyone felt it like animals sensing an earthquake before it hit.
When Prince reached the gym's entrance, the door was already propped open. That never happened at this hour. The lights were on, and voices echoed inside raised voices, hard voices.
He stepped in.
The ring sat in the center like always, but the energy around it was wrong. Fighters stood in clusters, whispering urgently. Morgan paced near the heavy bags, barking orders at no one in particular, his face etched in stone.
Prince moved toward him.
"What's going on?"
Morgan didn't answer. He just motioned with his chin toward the far wall.
Prince followed his gaze.
The wall had been vandalized overnight. A message spray-painted in thick, dark strokes:
HE WON'T MAKE IT TO FIGHT NIGHT
Prince stared at the words without blinking. They weren't subtle. They weren't meant to be. They were a promise, not a threat.
And everyone in the gym had seen it.
Morgan came to stand beside him. His voice dropped into a tone Prince rarely heard. "This wasn't kids. This was placed. Timed. Intended for you."
Prince ran a hand across his jaw. "Anyone see who did it?"
"No cameras good enough to catch faces. The building across the street had theirs covered with duct tape."
So professional, then. Or close to it.
Morgan's eyes hardened. "This is more than boxing politics now."
Prince nodded. He already knew.
"They want you unfocused," Morgan said. "Scared."
"I'm not scared."
Morgan shot him a sharp look. "You should be. Fear keeps you alive, son. But letting fear choose for you…" He shook his head. "That's when you become a casualty."
Prince looked back at the message. It wasn't the words that bothered him it was the arrogance behind them. The confidence. Whoever wrote that believed it. Believed Prince wouldn't even reach Ruiz.
It was almost insulting.
Then he thought of something else the Trackhawk earlier. The smashed shops. The closed café. The storm in the air since dawn.
This wasn't just someone playing games.
This was someone clearing the chessboard.
Prince turned to Morgan. "I need to train. Now."
Morgan grabbed his arm, stopping him. "Prince. You need to be smart. Whoever did this isn't done."
"Good," Prince said quietly. "Neither am I."
Morgan's gaze softened just a little just enough to reveal the fear beneath the frustration. "You remind me too much of myself at your age."
Prince offered him a faint, bitter smile. "Hope that's not an insult."
Morgan didn't smile back. "No. It's a warning."
Prince nodded once and headed to the lockers. He changed quickly, tying his laces with sharp, practiced movements. Each knot felt like defiance. Each breath steadied the fire climbing up inside him.
When he walked back out, the room seemed to brace itself. The fighters looked at him differently not with pity, not with sympathy, but with a kind of silent respect. Like he had stepped onto a battlefield and refused the shield.
Prince climbed into the ring.
Morgan held the pads.
The sound that followed was not training. It was declaration.
Punches cracked through the gym like gunshots quick, vicious, controlled. Sweat flew from Prince's brow. His shoulders throbbed. His gloves stung. But he didn't stop. Every strike was aimed at the fear someone expected him to carry. Every blow rejected the message on the wall.
He pivoted. Hooked. Dropped his weight into a right hand that sent Morgan sliding back half a step.
"GOOD!" Morgan barked.
Prince hit harder.
"AGAIN!"
He hit until the ropes trembled. Until the other fighters stopped pretending to train. Until the message on the wall meant nothing but fuel.
By the time the session ended, Prince's arms were shaking. His chest burned. His vision blurred around the edges.
He'd never felt more alive.
He stepped out of the ring, grabbing a towel and wiping sweat from his jaw. The gym had fallen back to its normal rhythm, but the tension still hummed beneath everything.
Morgan approached him again, lowering his voice. "Listen. This isn't over. Whoever sent that message… they'll escalate."
Prince nodded. "I know."
"And you're still walking into it?"
"Yeah."
Morgan exhaled slowly. "Then I'm walking with you."
For a moment, neither man spoke. The world outside the gym kept spinning, but inside, time held still.
Then Morgan added quietly, "Be careful on your way home. Take different paths. Don't walk alone at night. If someone calls you from an unknown number don't answer. If a car slows down behind you move to open space."
Prince listened. Absorbed. But he already knew half of this. He had lived enough life to understand danger without needing a map.
He grabbed his bag and left the gym.
The sky had darkened again. Clouds thickened like bruises overhead. The city lights flickered awake, casting reflections on puddles that hadn't existed an hour ago.
Prince walked with purpose.
He passed two teenagers arguing near a bus stop. A woman dragging groceries. A man smoking under a railway arch. People living their lives. People who had no idea a war simmered beneath their feet.
Then he saw it again.
The Trackhawk.
Parked half a block ahead, engine idling.
Prince didn't flinch.
He kept walking.
As he passed, the window rolled down halfway.
A voice inside spoke calm, low, familiar.
"Prince."
He turned his head just enough to see inside.
A man he had never met sat behind the wheel. Tall. Scar on his cheek. Wearing a suit that didn't match the car.
But his eyes…
His eyes were the kind you remembered.
"Walk away from this," the man said. "Walk away before they erase you."
Prince didn't blink. "Who sent you?"
The man smiled without warmth. "Someone who knows what's coming."
"And what's coming?"
His smile widened a fraction. "The truth."
Then the window rose. The engine roared. The Trackhawk peeled off, leaving boot prints in the water and silence behind.
Prince stood in the street alone, heart thudding.
The war wasn't coming.
It was already here.
And Prince wasn't just caught in it.
He was becoming one of the reasons it would burn.