Prince left the gym feeling like the day had shifted under his feet. The sky was dimming into that cold slate color London wore before rain, and the air carried a weight that felt less like weather and more like warning. Cars rolled along the street in steady streams, but even the traffic felt tense, as if the whole city sensed what Prince did something was approaching.
He tightened the straps on his bag and started walking. He didn't want the bus. Didn't want to sit still while thoughts spun around him. Walking helped the noise in his mind settle into something sharper.
Every detail of Navarro's visit replayed itself. The venue change. The new hidden players moving in the dark. The man in the Trackhawk "a ghost," Navarro had said. The kind nobody named. And Prince knew Navarro didn't exaggerate. If Navarro feared someone, the world should, too.
Prince kept moving.
The streets shifted as he cut through alleys he'd memorized over months, places where the walls wore graffiti like battle scars and puddles reflected the neon glow of restaurants already prepping dinner service. The scent of frying oil drifted from a shop's back door, mixing with the gritty smell of wet pavement.
He rounded a corner.
Stopped.
A black Range Rover idled at the curb.
Not the Trackhawk. Not the usual street presence. This one was discreet tinted windows, clean paint, plates that didn't match the neighborhood. It didn't move when he stepped into view. Didn't even pretend to drive off.
Just waited.
Prince walked. He didn't hesitate. Didn't change pace. Predators smelled fear faster than blood. He moved like a man with a destination, not a problem.
He passed the Range Rover.
One second later, the back window lowered a fraction.
Not enough to see a face just enough for a voice.
"Prince."
Just his name. Low, steady, unhurried.
Prince didn't turn his head. He kept walking.
The voice continued. "You should stop running turns."
Prince didn't respond.
The window slid down another inch. A sliver of a profile showed sharp cheekbone, light skin, the edge of a short beard. Enough to know it wasn't Ruiz's camp. Enough to guess connections not meant for public daylight.
"You think Navarro can protect you?" the man asked quietly. "He can't even protect himself."
Prince kept his steps even. His pulse didn't jump, but the muscles in his shoulders tightened.
Then the man said something that made Prince slow not stop, but falter for half a heartbeat.
"You're training for the wrong enemy."
Prince stopped walking.
The street noise softened around him. Even the hiss of a passing bus seemed distant. He turned his head slightly toward the car, just enough to show he was listening.
"Wrong enemy?" Prince said.
The man leaned forward, still hidden in shadow. "Ruiz is not your problem. He's just the bait."
Prince felt the temperature inside him drop. "Then what's the trap?"
The man chuckled once soft, unsettling. "You'll understand soon."
Before Prince could respond, the window rolled up. The car pulled away without revving or rushing, just gliding smoothly into traffic until it disappeared around a corner.
Prince stood alone on the pavement, hands clenching slowly at his sides.
He didn't trust Navarro. He didn't trust this new ghost. He didn't trust anyone playing chess in London's shadows with him as a piece on the board.
But he trusted the feeling in his gut.
And right now, that feeling said danger wasn't creeping closer it was already here.
Prince reached his flat just as the first drops of rain hit the street. The hallway smelled faintly of old carpet and takeout from someone's door left ajar. He unlocked his door, stepped inside, and shut it behind him.
Silence.
He flicked the lights on.
Everything looked normal bag where he'd left it this morning, shoes lined near the radiator, the TV remote on the arm of the couch. But normal didn't relax him. Normal felt too carefully arranged.
He scanned the room again, slower this time.
Nothing moved.
Nothing looked tampered with.
Still, Prince walked through each room like a soldier clearing terrain. Bedroom clean. Bathroom untouched. Kitchen still smelled faintly of yesterday's noodles. Nothing out of place.
He exhaled.
Maybe paranoia was catching up.
He dropped his bag by the couch, unzipped it, and pulled out a bottle of water. He twisted the cap, took a long drink, and leaned against the counter.
A soft tapping sound echoed from the hallway.
Prince froze.
Not knocking.
Not footsteps.
A soft, precise tap against a metal surface.
The letterbox.
Prince walked forward slowly, muscles tightening with every step. He crouched near the door, eyes locked on the small flap of metal. A piece of paper slid through. Small. Folded.
His heart beat once heavy, controlled.
He didn't pick it up immediately. He waited. Listened.
Then he checked the peephole.
The hallway was empty.
Prince picked up the note.
Unfolded it.
The handwriting was sharp, slanted someone who didn't hesitate when putting pen to paper.
Four words.
"STOP TRAINING FOR RUIZ."
Prince stared at the note, jaw flexing.
He flipped it over.
Another line.
"THE REAL FIGHT IS CLOSER."
He inhaled slowly and placed the paper on the table. His thoughts churned, sorting through timelines, motives, possibilities. Ruiz's camp had no reason for cryptic warnings. Navarro wouldn't send something like this it lacked his signature precision.
Which left only one obvious explanation.
The ghost.
Prince sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, mind racing through the implications. The Range Rover's warning had been almost identical. Someone was moving around him with accuracy. Someone tracking him through alleys, closed-off roads, dark windows. Someone who wanted him alive not dead but not for reasons Prince understood.
He leaned back, eyes on the ceiling.
He was being pulled into something bigger. Something layered. Something older than boxing rings and venue politics.
A storm was coming.
He wasn't sure what shape it had yet criminal, personal, political but he could feel it building.
And whatever it was, he knew it was already too late to walk away.
Prince didn't sleep that night. He sat on the couch long after the city outside went quiet. He wasn't scared fear wasn't the right word for what churned inside him. It was anticipation. Sharp, unsettling anticipation.
He knew fighting.
He knew pain.
He knew opponents who wanted him broken.
But this wasn't a fighter.
This wasn't a ring.
This wasn't a match with rules or cameras.
This was something else.
And whoever was orchestrating it had already decided Prince was either a threat… or a tool.
By dawn, he made a decision.
If someone in the shadows wanted to push him like a pawn, they'd picked the wrong player. Prince wasn't built to move on someone else's command. He was built to break commands.
He got up, grabbed his bag, and left the flat with a grim resolve tightening every step.
If the real fight was closer
Then he was going to find it first.